


The Art of War

by Lana7734, solaas



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - World War II, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Death, Depression, Drunk Sex, Forbidden Love, Gay Sex, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Historical Inaccuracy, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Military, Mind Control, Nazis, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV Alternating, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Soldiers, Steampunk, Suicidal Thoughts, Super Soldier Serum, Torture, Trauma, Violent Sex, War, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lana7734/pseuds/Lana7734, https://archiveofourown.org/users/solaas/pseuds/solaas
Summary: This is an RP in an alternate universe heavily inspired by MARVEL's Captain America and the (not so) platonic relationship between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Our characters and their personalities are all originals but there is definitely some resemblance between them and some of the characters from the MARVEL universe. Same with the plot.This is a very long, very intense and sometimes very dark story. The amount of trigger warnings for this piece of work are too many to be written down but if you check out the tags you'll pretty much instantly know if this story is or isn't suitable for you. The reason we decided to post our story here is because we think, and hope, that some of you might enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.Cheers!//J&K





	1. Chapter 1

Fate is a fickle little bitch, anyone who’s ever experienced something they did not anticipate knows that. And no one knows it better than Lancelot Volkov, once the innocent son of the Marshal of the Soviet Union, Ivan Volkov, now the well-oiled War Machine of the USSR’s 7th Artillery Division—the Ghost Division. A special force working directly with, and aiding the armies of Nazi Germany in any way they could. They were always first in the line of the fire, always first into hostile lands. And with the War Machine leading the way, the Ghost Division never left anything but a trail of destruction behind them as they charged forward, shaking the ground with a strength resembling that of a thousand guns.

Born and raised in the middle of a war-torn country, always by his father’s side, Lieutenant Volkov had never been far away from a battlefield, never experienced anything close to the life of a civilian. Because of this, the young Soldier was very well educated. And with more combat experience than many of his Senior Officers, Volkov was climbing the ranks faster than any citizen of the USSR had done before him. But there was one thing that the Lieutenant did not have, and that was the experience of life. Friendship.

_Intimacy…_

That would soon change, and through effects caused by a moment of unexpected mercy from his enemy, so would the outcome of the endless war, and—eventually—the fate of the entire world. And it all started one cold November morning in the year of 1940. 

It was a day like any other day. The world was cold, grey and covered in fog. Lieutenant Volkov and his Division was, for once, not directly at the front line. The small group of seven men had been ordered to fall back and await new directions. So they did, always following orders. Always doing their _thing_. 

Run—hide—regroup—feign retreat—attack.

Unlike the rest of the Divisions, the Ghost Division’s strategy was not stealth, but to act as bait. They forced the enemy to hunt. They mislead them and then proceeded to stab them in the back. It was not a very a glorious tactic, playing with the enemy the way they did, but it _worked._ Tiring them out until the heavy artilleris arrived… it kept the enemy off balance and forced them to use up their energy before the battle had even begun. Dirty fighting, yes, but very effective nonetheless.

But not today. Today was not a day for combat, not a day for deceit and annihilation.

 _There will be no bloodshed today,_ Volkov thought confidently as he strolled through the small town. It was surprisingly crowded for being so early in the morning, he noticed. He ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his belt. As he passed by what seemed to be an empty alley, the Soldier came to an abrupt halt. His entire body tensed up, and with his gun already drawn, he entered the narrow passage, using the shadows and the thick fog to his advantage. He took another step forward and covered behind a dumpster.

The next moment the War Machine leapt forward and found himself crouching with his gun in the air and face to face with… a little girl? A crying little girl. A filthy, skinny _crying_ little girl dressed in nothing but rags. Her feet were barely covered and her arms and legs were completely exposed. Frostbite had already taken three of her fingers. The soldier exhaled and holstered his weapon.

“Hi there, Sweetheart, are you lost?” he tried in Russian. The girl did not reply. Trembling from the cold and with eyes widened in fear, she let out a horrified squeak and took a few steps backwards. The Lieutenant did the same and smiled at her, doing his best to look as non-intimidating as he could. He repeated his question in German.

The girl shook her head and, with a shivering hand, pointed at a couple of garbage bins behind her. “Food,” she squeaked. “Shelter.”

The Soldier took a quick look at the debris scattered all over the alley and then eyed the girl again. He frowned.  _What the fuck kind of people leaves a child to fend for herself in this weather?_ he wondered. _Fuck, she’s just skin and bones. She’s going to die if I leave her like this…_ The Lieutenant gritted his teeth, resisting the sudden urge to tear down a wall. The girl seemed to notice his brewing rage and took another staggering step backwards.

“No, no, don’t be afraid.” Volkov immediately said. He pulled his thick ushanka off of his head and then dropped his backpack down on the icy ground. “I’m a friend,” he explained and pointed at the Red Banner on his left shoulder. “See? I’m an ally. I’m your Comrade.”

“C-comrade?” she repeated, curiously glancing at the flag.

“Da, Comrade,” the Soldier smiled, placing his hat on her tiny head. The girl giggled and Volkov smiled even wider. “Here, take this,” he said and removed the bedroll attached to his backpack, draping the thick fabric around her shoulders. He chuckled at her wide eyes and shocked expression.

“I c-can’t…” the girl stuttered, her eyes filling up with tears as the Soldier continued to hand her a few more items. An oversized shirt. A small pouch with a few coins.

“You have to,” the young man said sternly. “I am a soldier; my will is your law.” He hesitated for a moment, eyeing the girl and then his backpack, and then the girl again. And with a pained grimace, Volkov then grabbed a small, carefully wrapped bundle and shoved it into her arms. It was the last remains of his provisions, and it would’ve lasted him almost an entire fortnight if he rationed it carefully. But that didn’t matter now. His father kept telling him that this war was for the people, to improve their lives. To make the world a better place again. What kind of Soldier would he be if he couldn’t even save the life of one little kid?

“Now you listen to me, okay?” 

The girl nodded.

“You hide this. You keep it safe. And for fuck’s sake, make sure to find a better shelter before the next blizzard. Can you promise me that? And whatever you do, don’t—”

A footstep. That was the only warning Volkov got before he heard the sound of a gun cocking behind his back. 

 

Dirt.

Dryden’s life had been filled with it for the last year or so. If he wasn’t lying in a trench that was full of an inch or more of water and mud on all sides, he was crawling through it, under barbed wire that snagged his uniform. Also brown, like the dirt beneath him, and it had been so long since he’d gotten it properly washed, he couldn’t remember what its true colour was. Grey? Blue? Whatever it was, the scratchy trousers and coat would never be anything other than brown again.

That part he didn’t mind, as it helped him blend in with his surroundings. Forests and plains, cities and farmsteads, once verdant and lively, were now enormous valleys of dirt. The shells had done that, levelling anything that might have stood, and the fires that followed finished the job. There was no escaping the dirt. It got everywhere, in every piece of clothing, in every chink in the walls, in every crevasse it could find. The intermittent rain and snow only made it worse, adding the chill to the filth he was living in.

But Dryden Lore was not alone in this. His battalion all lived the same. The Surveyors they were called, sent to fan out and reconnoitre, then report back to whomever was standing with the most ribbons, and therefore in charge until his head got blown off. The Surveyors were small, quick, skilled in staying hidden and moving silently, and Dryden was the best of them.

They were stationed in another vast expanse of dirt and told to venture towards a small village to see if there were any supplies that could be pilfered. The village was under Soviet control, as quite a few were on this part of the Eastern Front. He took to the roofs on this dismal, overcast day, finding it easier to remain undetected by everyone who seemed to look at their feet instead of to the sky. Why bother looking up? Only bombs to be found there.

He’d mentally mapped out a few locations that looked like probable warehouses and was about to head back when he caught sight of something he didn’t expect. A Soviet officer, a high-ranking one judging from his uniform and the lack of dirt on it. The Soviet walked nonchalantly through the streets as though window shopping and it captured Dryden’s attention. If there was anything worth taking, this man would know of it and possibly lead him right to it. He followed silently, up on the roof and the ramshackle houses were so close together, he could creep along without jumping at all. Dryden looked ahead and saw a little girl picking through some garbage and saw the Soviet approach her, gun drawn.

He pulled out his service revolver, and crept closer, ready to end this monster if he saw fit to level his gun at a helpless child. But instead, the officer gave her his blanket and some sort of pouch that probably had some money in it. Why? Did he know this girl? She didn’t seem to know him. It was so utterly odd and unexpected that Dryden found himself slipping to the ground from the roof and entering the alleyway himself. The Soviet’s back was to him, but he heard the sound of a gun preparing to be fired quick enough.

As he turned around, the Brit motioned for the little girl to escape, and she shrieked and ran past him with her prizes, leaving the two men alone.

“Speak English?” Dryden asked in a rather low-brow British accent. 

 

Lieutenant Volkov was not a very religious man. Had he been, he’d probably laugh at the cruel irony of the situation.

_Save the life of an innocent child, and this is what you get?_

If there was a God, he had a very dark sense of humour. Very dark indeed. Then again, the young officer born in a field hospital as bombs fell around them had spent his entire life surrounded by death. Strapped to his father’s side like a dog, Volkov had yet to live one day without witnessing someone dying. Whether it was by his own hand or the hands of an enemy did not matter. It had still happened. He’d still seen it. The young Lieutenant understood the necessity of having a twisted humour far too well. So when the heard the sound of an enemy gun getting ready to blow his brain out, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

 _Seriously,_ he thought, shaking his head. _This is your great plan for me?  This is how I go?_

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little bit disappointed. The Soldier, spending most of his time fighting at one front line or another, was not afraid of death, but he had always imagined a very different ending. Like being taken out by a sniper hiding hundreds of miles away. Or getting incinerated by a tank. Maybe a bomb? Death from above seemed like a good way to go. But _this?_ Getting caught with his guard down in the back alley of a town controlled by his own army? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until now. And it was embarrassing as fuck, to put it mildly.

Slowly, with his hands in the air hovering just above his own weapons, the Soldier stood up and turned around. He watched the girl tightening her grip around her new treasures and slide out of the backstreet without making a single sound.

 _Well, as long as she survives I guess my death won’t be completely wasted,_ Volkov sighed and faced his assaulter with a straight back. The fact that the bullet was still in his enemy’s gun rather than in his head meant that there was still a chance for him to get out of this situation alive. Whoever the man was, he was no assassin. That much was clear. But if not that, what—and who—was he?

Curiously, Volkov eyed the soldier in front of him. Skinny. Filthy. Uniform completely worn-out and eyes darker than the sky on an endless polar night. This man had faced death many times, Volkov could _feel_ it, but judging by the lack of a shoulder sleeve insignia, the Lieutenant assumed he was of little to no importance to the British army and their allies. Should he disappear right there, right now, far behind his enemy’s lines, he would not be missed.

Very good to know.

The man spoke and Volkov raised an eyebrow at the idiotic question, actually insulted by it. He was an Officer, and an important one at that, in the Soviet Army. _Of course_ he spoke English. And French. And German. And a number of other languages this filthy man had probably never even heard off.

“Yes, I do,” Lieutenant Volkov replied, his Russian accent present, but not so thick it was hard to understand. He glanced the man’s shoulders again, just to be sure, and then added a slightly patronising “Private”, establishing his higher rank. They were eyeing each other now, like predators inspecting their prey the moment before launching an attack. The only problem was that Volkov couldn’t tell which one was which. Who was the wolf, and who was the caribou? Which one of them would die this morning?

“Why are you here, Soldier?” Volkov asked, his voice filled with curiosity rather than fear. “These villagers can’t even feed their own children,” he grunted, as if it would make any difference at all. Soldiers took what they wanted, whenever they wanted it. He knew that far too well. Still, he cocked his head in the direction where the girl had ran off. “If you and your allies raid them and take what little supplies they have, they will not survive the winter.” 

 

“Well, aren’t you a fountain of information?” Dryden said with a smirk. Honestly, this soldier had given him enough intel about this village to know his forces had no use for it. Fighting with the locals over meagre supplies was a waste of time and whatever good will they might earn. He had no idea why a Soviet would offer anything to him, but he was oddly grateful. “You just saved me a few hours of scouting, so thanks for that,” he added with a rather mocking tip of his hat with his free hand.

Dryden took a moment to really look at this officer, noting his cruel, pale eyes, his haughty posture, his surprisingly clean uniform with an insignia on it to indicate he was someone of import. Why would a Soviet officer of his clear rank be here now? If there was nothing in this village but starvation. He seriously doubted it was some kind of charity work. A mystery, a puzzle… One he couldn’t resist.

“Let’s see if those waters are still flowing, eh, Comrade?” he said, taking a half step forward and pointing the gun directly at the other man’s face. “If there’s nothing here but devastation, why are _you_ here? I may be a lowly private, but at least I have a reason. What’s yours?” It was a lie. He was a Sergeant, but this arrogant prick didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know anything about him. He could talk and tell Dryden what he wanted to know and then he could fuck off for all the Brit cared. 

 

Without flinching, the Soviet soldier, too, took one step forward, until the other man’s gun was touching his forehead. The pipe was cold and hard. It reminded him of the piece of metal connected to his skin where his left shoulder once had been, well hidden beneath his thick parka. His arms remained in the air, his weapons untouched. If he could avoid turning this into an unnecessary bloodbath, he would.

The Brit’s usage of the word _Comrade_ without fully understanding its true meaning made Volkov smirk. “I am no friend of yours,” he replied nonchalantly, as if he was merely catching up with an acquaint rather than staring down the barrel of a gun. “You say you have business here,” the man continued calmly. “Forgive me for not believing you, but I find that very hard to believe. Tell me, Private, have you ever experienced a Russian winter? I have met other soldiers from your army. The ones deployed here for missions are usually far better equipped,” he smirked again and straightened his back. Even if this encounter ended with both of them walking away with their lives still intact, the Soviet would not be surprised if he stumbled upon this man’s frozen corpse a few days from now.

“I am here because this is my country and it is my duty to serve her and her people in any way I can. How about you, hmm? How _did_ you end up here? Fell out of a plane, perhaps? Escaped prisoner?” He purred and tilted his head. “Just how lost are you, really? Need a compass? I have a spare.” 

 

“What, we’re not friends?” Dryden asked with mock disappointment. “But we were getting on so well!” The fact that this man seemed to be perfectly at ease with his forehead resting against the business end of a pistol was a bit disturbing. But at least he was behaving himself and not trying to reach for his own weapons. If he did, the Sergeant would have no problems pressing the trigger. These situations, one against one, usually only one would survive and it was not the one who hesitated. Not that he’d ever killed anyone before, luckily, but Dryden was pretty sure he would do it if it meant protecting his own life. 

“You don’t think I’m ready for winter in this shithole part of your country?” he scoffed. “Well, let’s just say the people you met that were ‘better equipped’ you probably saw quite a while ago. Our supplies have rather thinned out, as I’m sure you know. Hence the whole scouting and scavenging thing.” Oh great, now he was the one blabbering. Dryden cleared his throat and narrowed his dark eyes. 

“Does your duty to your country involve giving blankets to children? I don’t know why you gave her your money though. It’s not like there’s anywhere to spend it right now. Looks like we Brits aren’t the only ones short on supplies, eh?” 

 

Stalling.

The Lieutenant hadn’t exactly been in a situation like this before—it was very rare for him to walk around alone and even rarer to get himself cornered by an enemy like this. A mistake he would never do again, should he live to tell the tale. He was not afraid to die, no, but his survival instinct was going crazy, making his heart race fast enough for him to hear the throbbing in his ears, the powerful muscle pumping his body up with more and more adrenaline for each beat. Clearly, his body was not willing to die just yet. So he kept stalling, trying to find a way out of the situation without any bloodshed.

 _If_ he was fast enough to draw his own gun before the Brit could react and press the trigger, the sound of the shot would still draw attention and most likely making the rest of this soldier’s squad aware of his own division’s presence. Battle would arise, not only killing his subordinates, but also some of the innocent civilians living in the village. _But_ , if he just knocked the guy out and left him in the alley, he would either freeze to death, or get himself killed by one of the locals. This would also result in having a mob of god-knows how many angry British soldiers attacking the village—a village already short on medical supplies and even shorter on food and weapons…

The Lieutenant's brain was working fast. There had to be another solution. The most ideal event here would obviously be to get this young Private to lower his gun and just walk away. Both of them could forget this ever happened. Their squads would live to see another day and the villagers wouldn’t have to witness another massacre. But how could he make this happen? A frightened man was dangerous. A desperate one even more so, and the Lieutenant could see that this man, no— _boy_ —was both. He gave him a closer look. _Fuck_ , he was so young. Barely a man. He cleared his throat.

“My duty,” Volkov said in a clear, low voice, “does not involve leaving a starving child to freeze to death.” He raised his hands even further and carefully took a step backwards. “You want supplies? We have supplies. Just not in this  _shithole_ ,” he smirked. “Part of the country. The roads to this place are all wrecked. I am stationed here to fix them so the girl and the rest of her neighbours can start trading again.” Okay, the last one was a lie but this stranger did not have to know anything other than the fact that the village’s storage's were all empty.

Volkov had backed enough now to reach his backpack, and he kicked it forward hard enough for it to land just in front of the Brit. “Private, as a fellow Soldier I am asking you not to start a battle here. These people are innocent. If you take my bag and go, I swear that I will not pursue you. Shoot me, and you will be dead before lunchtime. My Comrades will see to it.” 

 

All of the information the Soviet spilled out wasn’t exactly earth shattering. Dryden was well aware that the state of the roads was dismal, which was one of the main reasons that his outpost was dangerously under-supplied and they’d sent him to this collection of hovels in the first place. At least this man wasn’t being an opportunistic vulture and picking the village’s carcass. That was something.

When the backpack landed heavily at his feet, the Sergeant’s eyes glittered with avarice. Considering how clean and polished this officer was, there was probably all sorts of goodies in there. He kept his gun pointed directly as the Soviet as he knelt down and unstrapped the backpack, rummaging through its contents to find personal effects, some clothes and a bottle of something that turned out to be alcohol. Plus, enough ammunition to take down a stampede of horses. “No food,” he grunted as he stood, accompanied by a very loud growling of his stomach. He hadn’t eaten a meal since the day before and had only some coffee that morning and a piece of stale bread. “Just my luck.”

Dryden slung the bag over his shoulder and gave the officer the once over, noting several weapons on his person. “Hold still,” he said gruffly as he approached to relieve him of his hardware. He stood directly behind the Soviet and unbuckled the holster at his hip. “Nothing personal, mate,” Dryden said. “But I would rather not have a bullet in my back. Wish I could say there’s honor among soldiers and all that, but we’re not exactly on the same side and we both know that’s horseshit.” 

 

The Brit’s command for Volkov to hold still was completely unnecessary, because the younger man’s approach had caused him to freeze on the spot. The rival circled him and suddenly the Lieutenant found himself with a gun digging into his back rather than his forehead. It was a very clumsy and practically useless threat; if the Brit shot him now, the bullet would go straight through him, missing any vital organ. It would hurt like fuck, but the Soviet was no stranger to pain—he would definitely have enough strength left to retaliate. To fight back. To _kill_. The thick parka protecting the Officer from the freezing winds would most likely muffle the shot enough for Volkov to finish him off without any interruptions.

So why didn’t he trigger the fight and end this verbal cat-and-mouse game?

Truth is, however embarrassing it was for him to admit, even to himself, was that the Lieutenant in that moment could hardly think at all, let alone _move_ . A strong hand tugging on his belt, the hot breath so close to his neck it melted the ice particles gathered on his collar, making ice cold drops of water run down his back… Volkov gulped. A shiver, very much _not_ caused by the sudden cold, shook his body. He shut his eyes and whispered a silent prayer in his mother tongue, begging to whatever Deity out there to forgive him for the sinful and mortifying images flashing through his mind. To spare him, and thus his father, from any humiliation this would cause if he was found out. Because if he was, it would ruin them both. The Lieutenant let out a shivering breath, hoping the soldier thought it was because of fear rather than him being betrayed by his own body.

For so long, Volkov had tried very hard to suppress his desire for other men, but the more he tried to ignore it, the stronger his appetite seemed to grow. Usually, he could control it well enough. He’d become an expert at distracting himself. Keeping busy. But this compromising situation… this breach in his personal space… it had been too long since he’d given in to the hunger of the flesh. He gulped.

“I…” Volkov cleared his throat again. “I would greatly appreciate it if you… if you could leave the black gun behind—take all the ammunition you want, I won’t stop you—but just… it was a gift from my…”

 _Fuck._ He was about to lose his posture. His dignity. Everything he had. _Mind over heart_ , his father always said. If the Marshal was here right now, the situation would already be over. This young British soldier would be dead. And so would his companions, and any villager brave, or foolish, enough to intervene. Possible even some of his own men… Casualties necessary for the sake of their cause and the motherland, the Marshal would say with a shrug.

The Lieutenant took a deep breath. He was _so_ sick of killing. Of hearing the screams. Of scrubbing the endless amounts of blood of off his uniform every single night.

“...from my mother,” Volkov finished with a sigh. “It was a gift from my mother.” 

 

Dryden was too intensely occupied with removing this man’s weapon’s to note any reaction except that he stood still and cooperated. It was fear that motivated the Brit himself to be so careful, to stand so close, to not let his attention waver from the Soviet for a second. So he was unaware of how warm his breath was, how gentle his hand was when pulling the pistol from its holster as though not to disturb anyone. He acted on his instincts, trusting them to keep him safe as they had thus far.

His concentration was so extreme that when the other man spoke to him, he jumped and nearly dropped the gun in his hand! Steadying it with both hands, he narrowed his eyes at the Soviet as he made his naked plea. Cynicism dictated that Dryden simply took the gun anyway. It was well made and would fetch a decent price if he decided to sell it. Besides, the Soviet could be lying about it, drumming up some pathetic story to inflame the Sergeant's empathy. How stupid would he feel if he let him have it only to be met with one of its flying bullets later?

He stepped away from the officer and held the black gun up between them, giving it a thorough inspection with his eyes, though not letting the Soviet out of his sight. Even unarmed, this man was dangerous. By chance, he met the other man’s eyes and was nearly stunned by the sincerity in them, the pitiful way he stared at this piece of machinery. Fuck, he _wasn’t_ lying! What Dryden wouldn’t give to have some piece of his parents! But their shop and the attached home were utterly destroyed in the Blitz and he had nothing of them, not even their image.

He holstered the gun pointing at the Soviet as he took a few steps back, towards the building he’d climbed down from. Then he opened the chamber of this “gift” and dumped the bullets in the snow. They wouldn’t fit any of his current munitions and his only purpose was to make sure none of them found their way into him in the near future. He tossed the piece at the Soviet’s feet, shrugging as a way of answering any questions he might have.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d remember this next time you get me in your sights, Comrade. Maybe let me see twenty, huh?” For some reason, he smiled at him, then adjusted his new prize on his back and jumped up the water gutters on the house and climbed on to the roof. Before scampering away, he looked down at him, not understanding what had happened here and vowing not to tell a soul.

Then he vanished into the fog. 

 

The moment Volkov was absolutely sure that the British soldier was far beyond both sight and earshot, his otherwise steady legs caved in and he fell down on his knees, trembling heavily. Inside his head, the brief encounter with the enemy repeated itself over and over again, and the Lieutenant couldn’t help but overanalyze every single word that had been exchanged. Had he given anything away? Had the price which had been payed, a backpack with no food and two guns, been enough to prevent this village and its inhabitants from being forced into living under siege again?

The fate of nearly five hundred civilians now rested in the hands of one single British soldier, all because the high-born Lieutenant Volkov did not want any more blood on his hands. He scoffed to himself.

 _There is still a fucking war going on!_  

He still had orders to follow. Missions to carry out. And with his Captain dead and buried less than a week ago, he was now the highest ranked Officer in his division, _he_ was supposed to take command and lead them. It was _his_ responsibility to keep them alive. The young man took a deep breath. Of course he would spill more blood, there was no escaping it. Every morning he would wake up to find himself drenched in it, again and again and again until the day where he fell asleep only to never wake up again.

At least, for now, the villagers and his men were safe. Well, as safe as they could be in this goddamn war. The Lieutenant let out a sigh of relief and, with shivering hands, wiped away the tears running down his cheeks before they froze solid. He forced himself to stand up and then brushed off the dirt from his uniform. After straightening his jacket, Volkov picked up his mother’s gun, placed it inside one of his pockets, and walked down the street leading back to the inn, back to his Comrades, and back to reality, determined to brush the events in the alley off as nothing more but a strange dream.

The British soldier did not exist. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Several days later, Lieutenant Volkov and his men found themselves trapped in a very different situation compared to the one in the village. Their orders had been very clear; it was kill or be killed. _Scouts_ had been seen. British soldiers sneaking around in the woods. And now here they were, following them, ordered to hold the ground no matter what.  _No prisoners, no surrenders._ Shoot to kill. Do not miss. It was an easy enough mission. Something they had done countless of times before. But despite all of their experience, this mission would not end the way they usually did…

The man delivering the order had also brought with him a letter informing the Lieutenant that he was to be their new commander. And as a Major he outranked Volkov with several ranks, so the younger soldier could not do anything but stand back and obey. That is, until sweet and naive little Major Ikanov, who’d spent more time in a German office than out on the Soviet fields, ordered them to enter the forest despite the oncoming storm.

“With all due respect, Sir,” Volkov argued, visibly disgruntled, “I _seriously_ suggest we wait until the storm has passed unless you want to bury every single one of us out there along with the enemy.”

“Storm? Have you lost your mind, Lieutenant?” the Major laughed. “The sky is clear—not a single cloud in sight! No wind to disrupt the direction of the bullets and no snowfall. Everything is in our favour. The Gods have blessed us with this marvellous opportunity, and you want to wait? You’re _mad!_ We’ll be back before twilight!”

“The sky is clear because we are in the exact centre of the blizzard, Sir. The eye of the storm. In a couple of hours we will be—” Volkov tried, but was abruptly interrupted by his superior.

“In a couple of hours we will be celebrating our victory in this very building! Drinks on me! Now get your men ready, Lieutenant. We’re leaving in ten.” The Major finished.

“But—”

“Are you undermining my authority, Volkov?” The Major’s voice was suddenly dark and threatening. “Because if you are, the Marshal—”

“No, Sir. I would never dream of doing something so dishonourable.” Volkov retorted poisonously, his teeth gritted. “You are my commander in chief.”

“On your way then.” 

The younger man had no choice but to do as he was ordered. Though it was with a very reluctant expression on his face that he turned around and left the Major's office. As soon as the door to the Major’s room had been closed, Volkov cursed loudly and slammed his left fist into a brick wall. “God-mother-fucking-damn-it-all-to-hell,” he growled as he watched the brick crumble beneath his strength. This idiotic Major would cost them their lives.  _Mother fucker._ He could only hope he was strong and fast enough to get his men in and out of this mission before the great eye moved on, leaving behind nothing but a trail of destruction. 

“Prepare for the worst,” Lancelot barked at his men a few minutes later, watching them pack. “Move fast and quiet.” They all nodded. “And I don’t care what the _fuck_ that shithead says; you will bring more provisions than ammo—tell them I ordered it, if you get shit for it. Pack an extra blanket rather than that spare gun. And should you get separated from the rest of us—lay low, find shelter as close to the spot of your disappearance as you possible can and _do not_ leave that place, you hear me? As soon as the storm has passed, we will find you. _I_ will find you.”

The young Lieutenant looked each and every one of his men in the eyes just like their previous Captain, God rest his soul, had always done before an especially dangerous mission. They were good men—fathers, brothers and husbands he’d been fighting side by side with for several years. It pained him to know that not all would make it back tonight. He knew it, and they knew it too, he could see it in their eyes. But orders were orders. They knew what they had signed up for when they joined the army.

“Survive,” he whispered. “That is all I ask of you today. Survive, and I swear that that fuckface of a Major will be back at his desk in Berlin before the end of the week.” The men chuckled at this, some even cheered. “Now let's go kill some Tommies, shall we?”

The blizzard was even worse than Volkov had imagined. Even though it was still early, the sky was as dark as night. The wind was screaming in his ears. Every snowflake hitting his face felt like a razor blade slicing through his skin. The air was colder than ice. He could not see. He could not hear. It was impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Not that he could find _any_ of them… he’d been by himself for an eternity now; just him and the brutal force of nature, fighting one versus one. Man versus God. Volkov already knew who was going to win, but _fuck_ if he was going to leave this place without one helluva fight!

His face was numb from the freezing wind. His spare hat had disappeared somewhere into the darkness, leaving his head and face exposed to the storm. The long hair was soaking wet and he could practically feel the frostbite getting ready to devour his skin. And yet he felt strangely warm.

 

The day was growing darker, but Dryden’s vision was blasted white. Things had gone downhill _fast._ A simple scouting mission, once again, this time his forces nearly doubled. Twenty men sent to secure a nearby forest and hill and look for good places to camp. They’d been spotted by the enemy somehow, it didn’t matter how anymore. Bullets flew, the snow began to fall, and then there was the explosion…

He’d been travelling in a parallel formation with Private Rory Campbell, someone he’d known since the beginning when they were in basic training together. Never the closest of mates, but they’d at least had a mutual respect. He trusted Rory to hold the line and make clear-headed decisions. They were seeing their way out of this mess, looking for some place for decent cover, as all of the trees in the area had taken a beating from the weather and the combat.

Dryden saw Rory slide down an embankment towards a small stream and started veering in that direction. He didn’t see the mine blow his companion to bits, but he fucking _heard_ it. The sound of the explosion was deafening and the shock wave threw him to the ground in the mud. He coughed, hands down in the icy stream, pain shooting through his body. An eerie ringing pervaded his mind, high-pitched and distracting—and he shook his head but it would not quiet. Dryden forced himself to look over his shoulder at the remains of his fellow soldier to see a smoking carcass. He didn’t even feel sick anymore from seeing this sort of thing. Just a numb acceptance of the most horrific deaths. He said a small prayer under his breath for his dead fellow and added a line that he hoped his death would be quick and painless like Rory’s was.

His vision now compromised, his hearing even worse, Dryden was now a liability and he knew it. His only hope was to find that cover and wait out the battle, assuming that was even possible. Was this even a battle? He had no idea who they were fighting or how many, just a chaotic melee in the woods. The chances of him surviving it were growing slimmer by the second. If the bullets or mines didn’t get him, the subzero temperatures would.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself and forced his body to move out. No way would he die in that frozen muck. The Sergeant's legs were heavy and stiff but they carried him away from the tiny massacre and into the field. He didn’t hear bullets, but probably wouldn’t have anyway. Only dumb luck would save him now. Ahead, Dryden’s vision narrowed on a small collection of trees that might provide him some shelter. He went towards them as quickly as he could without stumbling.

Through a swampy field and the trees didn’t seem to be getting any closer, or maybe that was just his perspective. He had to keep going, even though his legs burned and his throat was on fire. Ahead, he saw something unnaturally coloured on the ground… moving… Alive? Curiosity overrode his survival instincts and Dryden approached the Soviet lying on the ground. They stared at each other and he smiled to see someone he knew, ignoring for the moment that this person would likely kill him.

 

Suddenly, Lancelot saw there was a man in front of him. The Lieutenant drew his weapon. Pointless, really, since he only had one bullet left in the magazine, but he still drew it. Squinting, he tried to get a clear image of the stranger, and he gasped. Because what he saw before him was no man. It was an angel—an angel of death coming to finally, _finally,_ take him away from this fucking hell on earth. It was the most beautiful creation he’d ever seen, hair long and silk-like and eyes as black as his soul. The face was as fair as the snow surrounding them and the smile could melt a glacier. A moment ago Volkov had been panicking. But he was not afraid anymore.

The Soviet shook his head and blinked a couple of times. And the next time he looked up at the angel, it was gone and replaced by a man in a brown uniform, his face and eyes mirroring the same haunted expression permanently etched into the young Lieutenant's face. Volkov took a staggering step forward. He knew this man. It was the Soldier from the alley. The enemy.

 _Shoot him_ , a voice screamed inside his head. _This is the reason you’re out here. He’s not a person. He’s your mission. Shoot, and you can go home. Shoot, and you’ll be warm again._

Volkov put his finger on the trigger and prepared himself to add another face to the collection of people killed by _his_ hands. But then he remembered… an image of himself, crouching in the alley, his back turned against the enemy. A gun to his head. He swallowed.

 _Mercy_.

“Run.”

The word was barely a whisper, impossible to hear over the wind. The Lieutenant cursed and tried again. “RUN, Private. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” A warning shot swished over the Brit’s head. The War Machine’s last bullet.

“Fucking run.”

 

Without warning, the Soviet pulled out a coal black gun and pointed at his face. Dryden’s expression went from mild pleasure to dismay.

“Hey, we had a deal,” Dryden said quietly, barely able to hear his own voice over his tinnitus. The other Officer said something to him and he couldn’t decipher it, wondering why he was being so unpleasant when they’d already met and seemed to get along. At least, that was how he currently remembered it.

 _“Run, Private,”_ the Soviet said and Dryden frowned.

“Sergeant,” he corrected him rather huffily.

A bullet whizzed by his head from the Soviet’s gun and that was enough to break whatever fantasy he’d concocted about the nature of this reunion. He cursed and pulled away from the Soviet’s pale eyes, willing himself to move quickly. All the Brit heard was his own heartbeat and his laboured breathing as he sprinted away, finding the small grove of what must have been almond trees. He squeezed himself between them and let his head roll back. Gasping for breath, on the edge of a knife, he looked up at the sky and watched the snow fall.

 

It had been the perfect setup, had not the idiotic Major ordered them to execute it in the middle of a fucking blizzard. The perfect trap. Lieutenant Volkov and his division knew what they were doing and they were very good at it. Twenty, fifty, a hundred enemies—it did not matter. Once the Ghost Division were ordered to take care of something, there were no survivors. No prisoners and no one, absolutely _no one_ was shown mercy as long as as much as one Ghost was still breathing. If you were out of bullets, you drew your dagger and threw yourself at the target. If they disarmed you, you proceeded to bash their skull in with your fist, or you died trying. There was _never_ any mercy to be given. If the order was to kill, you fucking _killed_. No negotiations. Nothing.

The Lieutenant did not miss. If he ever got out of this alive and someone questioned him, he would claim that he did. That the wind, the distance and his blurred vision made him miscalculate. That he fucking _missed_. Everyone in that interrogation room would know it was a lie, and he’d be executed for treason. His father would be discharged—exiled—and the USSR would fall into chaos as the army searched for a replacement competent enough to lead the way the Marshal did. The collaboration between the Wehrmacht and the Red army would end. The Reich would fall and the Resistance would win.

Volkov’s ego was not big enough for him to actually believe that _he_ was the one with the power to determine the outcome of this war. But he did know that he was a brick in a very complicated game, and being his father’s son, his actions weighed heavier than those of other soldiers with a rank similar to his own. If he dishonoured his father in any way, the Red Army could very well throw him out, if it was bad enough. And without their Alpha to keep them in check, how would the wolves ever be able to decide who their next prey should be?

If the Private— _Sergeant_ —ratted on him, the consequences could be severe. Or maybe he was just overthinking this and blowing it out of proportion. He did that a lot. Either way, it didn’t matter. _There was no fucking way that little runt would survive the night._ Not in this storm. Not with that crappy gear. The Lieutenant sighed, pulled his parka tighter around his shoulders, and checked the compass. It was nearly impossible to navigate in this weather, but if his hunch was right, which it usually was, he was less than a day’s march from a very special place. A safe place not many members of the Soviet army knew about. What was the point of being the Marshal's son if it didn’t come with a few perks? He grinned.

Sometimes Marshal Ivan Volkov wanted an opinion from a person he knew wouldn’t hold back in fear of firing up the ruthless warrior’s rage. And Lieutenant Lancelot Volkov did not agree with his father just to get in his good grace, he never had, and he never would. He was not sucking up to him. No, the boy had always been brutally honest and his reward was something far more valuable than money.

_Knowledge._

He knew many things even some of the Generals weren’t aware off. If the enemy ever actually found out just how much the Lieutenant knew, it was possible that Lancelot would find himself in one of the most intriguing hostage situations on this side of History. Good thing none of the enemies who saw his face were alive long enough to spill the word.

None but one.

Stubbornly, Lancelot continued to defy the storm and slowly drag himself forward, one step at a time, spending hour after hour of forcing himself to keep moving. He knew that he had told his men to stay put if they ever got separated from the group, but that was because they did not know the wilds like he did. Or, the world located _under_ the wilderness. If he stopped now, he would die. He was bleeding heavily, the fabric around his right leg soaked in something that could only be blood. He had to get to the shelter and patch himself up unless he wanted to bleed to death—or worse—draw the attention of the real predators of the wilds. And he’d rather blow himself to pieces than being torn apart, bit by bit, by the brutal and vindictive wolves.

As he walked, the Lieutenant’s mind kept wandering back to the young soldier in the ragged uniform. Where was he now? Could he possibly still be alive when even a highly trained, well equipped and resistant native was on the brink of hypothermia? He shook his head. _No._   _No fucking way._ The simple movement caused the already light-headed and weakened man to lose his balance.

He fell.

The explosion which followed was loud enough to burst his eardrums. It should have been impossible, but Lancelot’s roar in pain as he felt his body being burnt, ripped and sliced open was even louder. The smell of burned human flesh mixed together with that of melted metal and fresh blood. In the corner of his eye, Lancelot noticed how his left arm had been blown off and separated from the rest of his body. _Again._ A sharp piece of shrapnel was sticking out from his chest. He blinked a couple of times as he tried to get his eyes to focus.

“That… that’s not supposed to be there,” the Lieutenant chuckled. The adrenaline and shock kept him from passing out, though he felt oddly woozy, as if someone had just injected an entire bottle of vodka directly into his bloodstream. His entire body screamed at him to get up and find help, and had it not been for his training, the Soldier would have. But somehow, he managed to lay completely still, apart from the occasional laughter as he looked down at his chest or glanced at the stump where his left arm had once been. It just looked too damn ridiculous.

 

Somehow, in the thick of the battle, Dryden had passed out for a little while. The close-growing trees protected him from the merciless winds and his injuries made him woozy enough to lose consciousness. When he came to, he had no idea what time it was or what the status of the battle was. The fact that the only sound he heard was the howling wind was not a comforting one. It was likely over… and his team either dead or victorious but it was impossible to tell which from his current location.

Dryden pushed himself to his feet, dropping down from the little nest among the trees. If his side had failed, it wouldn't be long before his enemies would come to mop up. Including the Soviet who'd let him go. Would that man be so generous a second time? He seriously doubted it.

The Brit began to trudge through the growing snow, back towards what he thought was his patrol’s original position. From the outside, he looked like a filthy scarecrow, barely covered in enough fabric to clothe him. But that was a false impression he purposely gave.

Underneath his threadbare coat was a double set of thermals his uncle had given him from the Steamer he captained that went in expeditions to the arctic. Unlike many of his fellow soldiers, Dryden knew exactly what to expect from this tundra and was adequately prepared.

Which would mean exactly squat if he didn't find real shelter from the oncoming blizzard. It was a rager; there was no avoiding the obvious. He had maybe an hour or two before he'd be blanketed in snow. Not much time but he had to make the effort. Worst case scenario: he'd freeze to death. Well, the Brit had heard it was one of the nicer ways to go.

The ringing in his ears had lessened somewhat, enough for him to hear the mine explosion. The vivid, horrific memory of Private Campbell flickered in his mind and he found himself heading towards the sound. Perhaps it was one of his people! He had to see…

The stench of burnt blood and flesh was still fresh as he neared the mangled body on the ground, too bloodstained to even see the colour of the uniform. The poor soul’s entire left arm was blown off! “Dear God!” he called out. The man was still moving!

He knelt down beside the dying man, taking stock of his egregious injuries before looking at his face.

_That face…_

“Holy shit, it’s you!” he cried as his eyes met the pain-glazed ones of the Soviet. “Fuck, I'm sorry, mate… it's bad. Real bad,” he started yammering. Then he pulled out his pistol and showed it to the Soviet, careful to keep it out of reach in case the dying man decided he didn't want to go alone. “Do you want me to end it here for you now?” he asked grimly.

 

The Soviet did not know how long he’d been lying there when another Soldier showed up. A minute? A day? All he knew was that it fucking hurt. The pain in what was left of his arm overran the pain in his chest, even though the sad excuse of a shoulder was made out of metal. It had been a gift from one of his father’s dear friends—a scientist with the ability to construct technology so complicated Lancelot did not understand half of it.

The woman had tried to explain it the best he could, something about cables connecting to the nerves and allowing his brain to control the prosthetic as if it was his own arm. It had taken a bit of practice, of course, but the young soldier had learned to master the piece of technology flawlessly. And now it was gone. He could still see it, lying in the snow a few metres away from him, covered in blood just like everything else he touched. Small bolts of electricity sparked where the cables had been cut off, just like they did at the end of the stump still connected to his torso. Painful electric shocks sent bursts of pain through his neck and down his spine. It made his legs twitch involuntary.

The soldier coming to his aid—one of his loyal comrades, he believed—keeled next to him, and Lancelot shut his eyes, thanking his lucky star. Out of all his teammates, _he_ was the one least skilled in field surgery. With someone else doing the bandaging, he’d be patched up and out of there in no time.

His comrade muttered something in English. The usage of that ridiculous language, complete with a perfect fake accent and everything, made the Soviet laugh heartily. He had no idea why the _fuck_ his partner had chosen to speak English rather than Russian, but he couldn’t care less. Probably a sad attempt to cheer him up and distract him from the pain. It didn’t work half as well as he wished it did, but at least they hadn’t lost their sense of humour.

The Lieutenant responded in their mother tongue since he knew some of their fellow soldiers struggled with understanding the foreign languages, and laughed again when his Comrade replied in English. Idiots, always messing with their younger leader. What kind of game were they playing this time? He forced his eyes open even though he couldn’t do more than squint, the powerful sunlight hurting his sensitive corneas, singed from the heat of the explosion. He still wasn’t sure which one of his teammates he was speaking to, but he trusted every single one of them with his life. Right now, it did not matter who it was anyway. All that mattered was to stop his bleeding and get to the shelter before the next storm hit them will full force.

Taking slow, deep breaths, Lancelot breathed through the pain. He’d lived through this exact thing once before, and with the help of his friends, he could do it again. Because they needed _him_ to get inside. He had to save them. His right hand clenched hard around the arm of the man closest to him. With more stubbornness than actual strength, the Soviet pulled himself up, leaning all of his weight against the other man, praying that he was strong enough to carry them both through the deep snow. The movement caused his vision blur and grew darker. He groaned in pain and almost passed out as the man beneath him stumbled.

“East,” he croaked in Russian, trying to cock his head in the right direction. “We have to go east.”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa” Dryden shouted as the Soviet started to hang on him and managed to use Dryden as leverage to sit up. “That’s… very brave of you, but about half of you is still lying in the… snow…” he trailed off as he finally looked at the arm that was half buried nearby. He’d assumed that, because it was covered in blood, it was… well, an arm. But this was no flesh—flesh didn’t send off sparks! He squinted and saw quite clearly that it was a prosthetic. One unlike anything he’d ever seen before, but it was still detachable. Perhaps this lucky Rusky wasn’t at death’s door after all.

Then again, with the blizzard quickly approaching, they _both_ were.

The Soviet mumbled something in Russian and cocked his head away from the setting sun. Apparently, he had some sort of destination in mind. Which was a good deal more than Dryden had at the moment. So the Soviet could show him a place to hole up—hopefully not chock full of more enemies. It was the best he could hope for. This one was in no shape at all to cause him trouble, and even if he wasn’t bleeding out, Dryden couldn’t see just leaving him to die, enemy or no.

Grunting heavily as he helped them both stand, the Brit made his way even more slowly through the snow, now bearing most of the Soviet’s weight and the burden of their two packs. He considered abandoning one or both of them, but they would probably be stuck in wherever they ended up—assuming the Soviet wasn’t having some sort of hallucination or delusion—and they’d need everything they had.

The snow grew steadily thinner on the ground as the Sergeant took his laborious steps, until he could hear something other than it crunching under his boots. Slick metal, steel probably, under foot and there were stairs leading below! It would have been impossible to find this place in the storm had this man not shown him the way and Dryden’s chest heaved in relief and gratitude. Descending was easier than walking and soon he was at the bottom of a full flight of stairs, already warmer, and in front of a huge iron door. A numbered combination stared at him from the center of it.

“Well, shit,” he groaned, then shook the Soviet to make sure he was still awake. “You know the sequence, right?”

 

On the short way from the place of the explosion to the hidden bunker, Lancelot fell in and out of consciousness dozens of times, opening his eyes just long enough to make sure they were heading in the right direction. His body was moving on its own, it's instinct to survive stronger than Lancelot’s will to just give up. The pain was excruciating, and many times he stopped, begging his annoyingly stubborn teammate to leave him behind and let him die alone and with dignity. The man refused and after just a few minutes Lancelot’s vocabulary seemed to consist of nothing but curses creatively combined in a number of different languages.

Somehow, the two managed to eventually get to the shelter in one piece. Well, everything but an arm anyway. Lancelot collapsed on the ground outside the entrance, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe. With absolutely no energy left, he leaned his back against the door, and closed his eyes. _They made it._ The hallucinations of his other teammates gathered up around him, and he cried in joy to see them all alive, for some of them were Comrades who’d been killed in action years ago. They had a long conversation in Russian where he thanked them for their trust and never ceasing loyalty, most of it happening inside the traumatised man’s delirious head.

His vision faded faster now, darkness enclosing itself around him more often than the beautiful landscapes painted white by the freshly fallen snow. Had it not been for a very sudden and very rough manhandling of his sore body, he would have happily fallen asleep and most likely never woken up again. But the other soldier _did_ shake him—violently, at that—and Lancelot’s eyes shot open in both shock and pain.

“The fuck do you want?” he growled and added another curse, going back and forth between English and Russian. His comrades laughed at him and he scowled angrily. He was tired cold and hungry. He just wanted to sleep. His idiotic brother muttered something about a sequence. What sequence? What the _fuck_ was he talking about? The Lieutenant knew it had been a bad idea to let him join this mission, even though it was only a drill. “Are you as daft as you are ugly?” he grinned. “You _know_ that mother always uses our birthdays for this shit...!”

His little brother continued to look at him, utterly bewildered, judging by his expression, and Lancelot rolled his eyes. “Are you telling me you don’t remember my birthday?” he slurred drunkenly and then proceeded to kick the boy in the shin just for the sake of it. “The gun,” he added, over articulating the two words. “Check the gun you pathetic, dumb cocksucker of a brother.” He laughed, very pleased over his amazing skills at leading, teaching _and_ insulting at the same time. With a smile on his lips, Lancelot’s eyes then closed, and everything went black. 

 

Alright, this was the behaviour of someone out of his mind. Not that Dryden could blame him, for he was half dead and somehow mostly standing. Through garbled words and barking laughter, the Brit managed to gather what he was saying about the combination and took his gun to examine it as the Soviet collapsed to the ground. Probably for the better as his manners were atrocious!

“How about ‘zank you forrr saving my vorrrthless life’?” Dryden muttered to himself, affecting a ridiculous Russian accent.

After he put in the code, the door miraculously opened and he dragged the Soviet inside the dark bunker and off to the side. It was almost pitch black in there but he managed to find a switch and a series of dim bulbs illuminated, accompanied by a soft humming noise. He stood in the center of the rather large room and looked around, mouth agape at the size of it.

“I’ll be damned,” he said to himself. There was a common room that they were currently in, a full kitchen off to the side, a fully operational latrine, and a bunk area. Naturally, the kitchen caught his attention first and he managed to find the energy to sprint there and start opening drawers. There was nothing but canned goods it seemed, and all in Russian, but fuck, there was enough here to feed a whole battalion for a month! After locating an opener, the Sergeant helped himself to the first one he grabbed, finding creamed corn and eating it cold right from the can.

“Oh, that’s so good,” he groaned in pleasure, not having any real food for weeks. A few cans later and he’d feasted on pears, beans, and a different white bean. His belly was fuller than it had been in years and he sat in contentment on the floor where the Russian still lay.

Breathing. Alive.

Crazy.

“I suppose I owe you one,” he groused, groaning as he stood again and started scavenging for medical supplies, of which there were plenty. Then he took a mattress off one of the bunks and managed to drag the Soviet onto it, since there was no way he was going to lug him into the bedroom. Having some basic field medical training, he was able to treat and bandage him reasonably well. It did require that he be mostly stripped and cleaned off and it took a lot longer than the Sergeant anticipated, mostly because he was being so careful. He found his eyes lingering on the Russian’s body longer than he expected, and not just to examine his injuries. He was… a breathtaking specimen. Dryden had never seen a man with such a beautiful body. Was he a bodybuilder before he became a soldier? Or a model? A Russian heartthrob actor? He sat back on his heels and laughed at himself.

“Get a grip. This man can’t wait to kill you,” he reminded himself. Scooping up anything resembling a weapon, Dryden carried everything into the bunk room. Then he helped himself to a shower. It was fairly cold, but he hadn’t had the opportunity in months and real soap! Such luxuries! He washed his hair and body thoroughly and even was able to shave! Looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Clean now, and so different from two years ago when he joined. Would Josie even recognise him now? He seemed so much older to himself.

Finally—clean, fed, and safe—Dryden helped himself to some extra clothes and didn’t care that they were a little large for him and clearly made him look like a Soviet. They were warm and soft and he found a bunk near the door to claim. First, he secured the door with a chair so he wouldn’t get any unwanted visitors and then slid into a real bed. If the Soviet lived through the night, they could figure things out later. But for now, he would finally sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_Pain. A constant, never ending pain. Lancelot could not breathe. He could not move. His shoulders and chest were severely restricted, as was his legs. He was trapped in a never ending panic attack. It burned. He was trying to sit up, trying to get away, but the metal clasps holding him down were stronger than him. He swallowed, and when he opened his eyes, he knew where he was._

_Hell._

_Everything was burning now. The pain was becoming stronger, and the creature causing it was standing right next to him. Confusing words in a language he had not yet mastered were being said. Jolts of electricity surged through his body, forcing him to stay awake._

_Hell._

_This was his punishment. Since that first time he’d taken another man’s life, Lancelot had known this was where he’d end up eventually. But now when he’d arrived, he was more terrified than he had ever been during his life alive…_

Hidden in the bunker deep beneath the Soviet wilderness, the Lieutenant was spending the night throwing himself back and forth in agony. His entire body was drenched in sweat mixed together with dried blood and mud. When he wasn’t rambling incomprehensible phrases in his mother tongue, the man was either screaming at the top of his lungs, or sobbing violently.

Images of his past—tortured memories too horrific for a man to live with—were breaking out of the cage he’d forced them into so many years ago.

“Я прошу прощения,” he cried again and again. _I’m sorry._ “Пожалуйста, простите меня.” _Please, forgive me._

When the night had passed and gone over to early morning, the Lieutenant seemed to be settling down. The nightmares eased their grip of his mind and the humming noise from the bunker’s machinery lulled him into a feverish, restless slumber. For the rest of the day and half the night, Lancelot slept while his body dealt with the trauma and tried its best to heal him.

The next time the man woke up, it was in the middle of the night. A violent blizzard was raging in the world above them, killing everything in its way. The walls and door were too thick for Lancelot to hear it, but he could _sense_ it. He opened his eyes will full force, gasping and coughing alternately. After managing to get himself to sit up, he placed his left arm on the floor and leaned on it, curious to see where the fuck he was. Only… there was no left arm. He lost his balance and fell down flat on his back again. The pain returned and he cursed heavily. “Fucking hell…” he muttered to himself and tried again, this time using the slightly more worthless, non-dominating right hand of his. Well, since that was the _only_ hand he currently had, the Soviet guessed it had just gotten a promotion to be the chosen one. Lucky.

With a loud grunt, Lancelot pulled himself up and took a look around. _Interesting_ , he thought. Apparently he was in a bunker he did not remember entering. Most likely a bunker no one in this area had the code to, except him. He was also practically naked and covered in bandages. No clothes. No gear. No… no weapons.

_I’m not alone. Fucking shit on a stick._

As quiet as he could—which wasn’t very quiet at all—the man stumbled over to the kitchen, grunting and groaning all the way there. Though he had not placed his feet in this exact place before, the bunker seemed to have exactly the same layout as all the others, at least this level anyway. Good for him.

Going through the cabinets, Lancelot’s first intention had been to get his hand on a knife. Or a potato-peeler. Hell, even a fork would do! Anything he could use as a weapon, really. But then he found the liquor bottles. With a joyful laughter, the Soviet grabbed one of the bigger ones, opened it with his teeth, and gulped down one fourth of its content in one go. _Then_ he opened a drawer and grabbed a large knife. Being one-handed was definitely a bit more tricky than he remembered, and it ended with him holstering the knife in his underwear and keeping the bottle in his only hand. Probably one of the most Russian things he had ever done in his life.

 _Now what,_ he wondered, walking around aimlessly. He’d been unconscious for fuck knows how long. Though he’d been disarmed, the man guilty of that had also tended to his wounds and bandaged him pretty well. If he wanted to kill him, he would already be dead.

 _Unless he wants something from me._ Like the codes to the lower levels—invaluable information for the rivaling armies. Rubbing his temples with his one hand, the Lieutenant tried to get rid of this new headache. He was strong, but not strong enough to fight an armed man with nothing but his right hand and a knife. _Fucking hell._ The Soldier managed to drag himself to one of the tables, and sat down on a chair. He placed the knife in front of him and tried to think. Pearls of sweat formed on his forehead and dripped down on the table. Shit, he was burning up. It fucking hurt.

The Lieutenant heard the man before he saw him, but he didn’t bother looking up from the bottle to see who it was. “If you’ve come to get the codes to the lower vaults, you might as well shoot me now, Soldier, and spare yourself the time. I’ll be dead before you get me to talk.”

 

During the Soviet’s protracted sleeping schedule, Dryden had gotten a good four hours in then woken up to fill his belly once more. He also took the time to check on the Russian Lieutenant and change his bandages, marvelling at the fact he still wasn’t dead! And seemed to be improving! He heard and saw him thrashing about and talking in his sleep but didn’t think of it. Most soldiers did that, having been in battle long enough. He was still curious about the arm, of course, and took the opportunity to investigate the charred metal that remained implanted in the Russian’s side. Technology the likes of which he’d never seen before—even the metal itself was foreign to him. Lord, if the Allies caught wind of what their enemies were working with, they’d shit themselves!

He almost cackled to himself at the thought, bearing no love for the institutions that sent him into a flooded mud puddle while they ate Beef Wellington from the comfort of their own offices and recruited more.

Then he took another shower, pleased that it was actually warm this time! Ah, he could live out the rest of his days here and not feel cramped or deprived, he thought. Except for the sleeping/screaming Russian, of course. He’d figure out what to do about him later.

Dryden returned to his bunk room and locked the door and flopped down on an entirely different bed just for fun. He was still body tired but the long nap hadn’t made him weary enough to sleep. His arm dropped and his fingers brushed cold leather. The satchel. He’d had it for a few days and hadn’t even taken the time to fully investigate. No time like the present! Besides, maybe he could learn more about the man that was convulsing in the other room.

Inside the leather sack was basic supplies that he expected, nothing too out of the ordinary. There was a large bottle of clear liquid that he assumed was water until he unscrewed the cap and inhaled the pungent odour of alcohol. Gah, by the smell of it, the Soviet used it to sanitise cuts in the field. At the bottom of the satchel was a well-worn notebook bound in a matching leather. Dryden spared a quick glance at the door as though an indignant Soviet might come barreling through to keep his privacy from being invaded.

Nope!

“Alright, who are you, metal man?” Dryden asked himself as he unwound the cord keeping it closed and opened it up. It was in Russian of course, but he was able to sound out the soldier’s name. “L-lan-c-c-e-l-l-ot,” he puzzled. “Lancelot? That’s a British name!” Curiouser and curiouser. “V-v-ol-k-k-ov,” was the surname. Well, at least that made sense to him. What an odd fellow with an odder name. Not that Dryden’s was common…

He flipped through the pages then, not understanding or having the energy to decipher the Cyrillic alphabet, and about to put it aside until he got further in and found some… interesting drawings. Male torsos, sketched in exquisite detail. Maybe he was an artist? “Huh,” Dryden muttered, flipping the page. The next one had even more drawings with even more detail, only these seemed to have an entirely different focus as all of the torsos now had huge, erect phalluses. The Brit blushed furiously and stowed it back in the satchel, trying very hard to ignore the sudden stirring in this groin. He rubbed his eyes and decided it was time to sleep now, so he turned to his stomach and did so, slumbering through the night.

Whatever sounds Lancelot made the next morning were nicely muffled by the steel walls and insulation, so Dryden slept undisturbed until nature’s call woke him. He stumbled out of the bed and moved the chair lock, cracking open the door to hear cursing and objects falling. “Guess he’s awake,” he muttered to himself. And moving around. Not bad.

Dryden walked into the kitchen area to see the Soviet—Lancelot—slumped in a chair at the dining table. He caught the tail end of what the Russian said and nearly squealed in glee. “Lower vaults??” he asked giddily, having visions of dance halls and swimming pools. “What’s down there?”

 

The voice replying to his muttering was British, Lancelot was conscious enough to perceive that. Curiosity got the upper hand and he glanced over at the man standing in the doorway. Soviet uniform. That was the first thing he noticed. The fabric was unnaturally clean and the colour far too rich to have seen the field.

 _Stolen_ , he decided.

His eyes continued to wander over the man, inspecting him thoroughly. Socks, but no boots. A little odd, but perfectly understandable since it was warm and dry down there. Even British feet had to get real tired of damp shoes after a while. His hands, both of them, Lancelot noted with just a little resentment, were also clean. The fingernails cut short. A gun was attached to his hip. He sighed, not surprised at all. The man was stuck in a secret underground enemy base—he would’ve been a complete moron not to stay armed. So he had brains. Impressive.

The Lieutenant grabbed his bottle, almost empty now, and gulped down the rest of the clear liquid. He continued the inspection. The Brit’s hair was dark and well combed, almost long enough to reach his shoulders but not quite there yet. Apparently Lancelot was not the only one breaking the ridiculous and seemingly international military code that all soldiers must shave their fucking heads. He’d done it once, to please his father, and it did _not_ suit him at all. Never again.

The Soldier was smiling at him, and Lancelot caught himself staring at him, absolutely awed at the warmth and sincerity of it. He gulped and looked away, suddenly remembering that he was sitting there in nothing but briefs. That didn’t stop him from turning his gaze back at the man less than a second later, gawking at him. He closed his mouth and met the man’s eyes.

 _Fucking hell,_ _it’s him_ , he realised, instantly recognising the black eyes. He’d never seen anything like them before. But… _how?_ How had he survived? And how the _fuck_ had he ended up here, of all places? Was he following him? A spy sent out by the British—or perhaps even German—forces? Lancelot couldn’t help but narrow his eyes suspiciously.

“I… um…” the Lieutenant started. What next? What was he supposed to do in this situation? He couldn’t allow the man to live after what he’d seen, but it’s not like he could kill him either. This man had saved his life. _Twice_. He owed him. A lot. “Err..” he grimaced. “Just so you know, that uniform makes you look ridiculous. The Soviet colours doesn’t suit you very well.”

 _What the actual fuck, brain?_ Lancelot cringed internally and then realised that the man had asked him a question. He thought for a moment. “Hell,” he replied. “Hell is down there.”

 

Expecting some sort of gratitude, or even acknowledgement for what he’d done, Dryden was visibly miffed when he got an insult followed by a non sequitur. Of course, hell was beneath them. Everyone knew it was underground! He folded his arms and glared at the Soviet who now smelled like a distillery. Oh, so he was drunk. All the cliches were true then.

“Well, _you_ look ridiculous with half your body blown off,” he groused back, fighting the urge to leave the drunkard to his stewing and heading into the room to take a look at him. He’d managed to do quite a lot of damage in the kitchen by flailing about with one arm, something that rankled the Brit, missing the immaculate order of the room already. “What a mess you’ve made,” he said with a shake of his head, trying to set the room back in order. He felt the Russian’s eyes on him, burning into his back, and had no idea what to say to him. “I don’t think getting sloshed is the best idea in your condition,” he gently scolded. “But, then again, I’m just a guest here, so I don’t really have a say.”

His mouth twitched when he thought of how much pain the Russian must be in right now. “Honestly, I didn’t know if you would make it, and I wasn’t much looking forward to sharing this place with a corpse, so thanks for saving me the trouble of figuring out what to do with your body.” He finally turned back to Lancelot and crouched down in front of him, examining the wounds on his body. “Are there painkillers here? I couldn’t read any of the labels on the bottles. Maybe that would help you.”

 

The Lieutenant watched the man clean the kitchen as if his life depended on it. Sure, the Soviet agreed that order and organising your shit was necessary to keep your mind clear, but they were _stuck_ down there—at least he was—until he’d healed enough to be fit for fighting in a fucking _war_ . Cleaning was not his priority right now, that could be dealt with later. It’s not like there was a commander there to scream at them if they took the time to relax for a couple of hours before going back into Soldier mode. Now when he thought about it, out of the two of them, _he_ was the one with the highest rank. He should be the one handing out orders!

 _Wait, is the Brit still talking? Did I just miss something important? Corpse? What was going on?_ Lancelot groaned. Fuck, his head…

Suddenly the man was kneeling next to him and Lancelot stopped breathing. What was up with this guy and personal space? Weren’t the Brits supposed to be, well, British? All posh and overly formal? Was he _trying_ to give him a heart attack? “Whoasoclose…” he blurted, stating the obvious and then swallowing.

“Painkillers?” he chuckled, fighting the urge to kick the man in the face. “Why? Do I _look_ like I’m in pain?”

The look he got from the Soldier was probably the least amused expression he had ever seen, and that was something, given the fact that he’d grown up with the Marshal. Lancelot took a deep breath and tried again. “Look, I’m fine, Sergeant, really. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t exactly the first time I’ve blown myself up, I know the protocol and I…”

The Brit tightened the bandage around his chest and then sat down on a chair opposite the table. The black eyes continued to look at him and it made Lancelot squirm uneasily. He sighed. “I… twice now you’ve had the chance to kill me. Twice you saved my life instead. I’m the enemy. Had it been me who found you in the alley, you’d be dead now. Why am I still breathing?”

 

Dryden had to laugh when the Soviet claimed to be pain free, assuming he was joking. Then he saw the deadpan expression and shook his head in disbelief. “I suppose that's due to the bottle you emptied,” he observed. “Once that wears off, you'll have a hangover on top of it.” There was anger broiling under the man’s surface; he could feel it roll off of him. Was it because his precious space had been violated? Or because his bunker was. Either way, Dryden wasn't about to poke the bear. Heh, Russian joke.

He gave up trying to tend to his surly foe and found a seat at the table, watching him, looking for indications that he was unstable or looking to lash out. But he got questions instead. He shook his head again and carded a hand through his shaggy hair. “Why didn't you kill me; I would have killed you,” he paraphrased. “That must be a Russian thank you.”

 

Lancelot stayed quiet for a couple of minutes. Pondering at their situation and trying to breathe through the pain, for his claim to be free of it had been a lie, obviously. He’d just blown off his fucking arm, for fuck’s sake! But until he knew if he could trust this man, Lancelot had to make him believe that he was far stronger than his current appearance made him out to be. Whether the Sergeant knew it or not, the fate of _nations_ could be at stake here, were they not careful enough.

Eventually, he sighed and pushed himself up, choking back a painful grunt as he did so. Now it was his turn to have eyes on him. The Brit’s curious gaze felt as if it was burning two holes in his already mangled and exposed back. He shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling and made his way back towards the liquor cabinet, not even bothering arming himself with a knife this time. On his way back he stopped and grabbed a few food cans. He had to use his right arm to pin them against his stomach in order to be able to carry them all. He hadn’t eaten anything since before the mission. If the pain didn’t knock him out soon, his hunger would. It looked as if the Sergeant was making himself ready to get up and… aid the Soviet? A grumpy glare made the Brit sit down again, shrugging. He probably found the sight fucking _hilarious_ , but Lancelot did not care; he didn’t need any more help from him. He’d lived through worse.

So instead of going back to the table, the Lieutenant headed towards one of the stoves. The silence between the two soldiers wasn’t awkward, at least Lancelot didn’t think so. He didn’t sense any stiff tension in the air, but that might’ve been due to the fact that his body was currently hosting an entire bottle of vodka. He scoffed at himself.

_Aren’t I a wandering fucking stereotype!_

The Soviet was digging through the cabinets and drawers as if he’d been standing in this kitchen a hundred times, knowing exactly where every single little thing he needed was placed. Technically, one could say that he had been here before. Just not… _here._

He was loud. Pots and cans and jugs and cutting boards. The Brit had complained about the mess before? _Well that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do this time_ , Lancelot thought maliciously, but instantly regretted the evil plan. It wasn’t the Sergeants fault that he’d fallen on a fucking mine. A _Soviet_ made mine, probably.

It took him some time, a lot of time, actually, but eventually Lancelot had everything he needed to make a real dinner. They even had fresh vegetables stored in an icebox! The Red Army had spared no expenses building this place.

“So, what do you want to eat, Private?” Lancelot asked with a grin, purposely using the wrong rank. “I have canned, well, everything.”

  
My, if this man weren’t a walking warning for the dangers of pride. Just watching the Soviet pretend to be feeling all handy dandy was enough to exhaust Dryden. What the fuck was all this posturing for? It’s not like there was anyone else with them! But the other Officer had to make a big show of being all self-sufficient and even when Dryden tried to get up to help him, he was met with a death glare that sent him right back to his seat.

_Fine, if you need to play the tough guy…_

Dryden sat and watched him absolutely destroy the kitchen, wincing with each messy retrieval and splat on the floor. “You’re doing that on purpose, right?” he complained, as though he were being personally attacked. It wasn’t that he was a neat freak in his real life. In fact, his sister Josie used to tease him for his lack of cleanliness. Just… military life made him seek out order amongst the chaos and a beautiful, meticulous place like this made him feel… Well, it made him feel safe. As though God existed. So he hated to see that loveliness all in tatters. But it wasn’t his… He knew that, just as he knew his opinion on the matter wasn’t wanted by the Soviet.

Finally, Lancelot spoke to him, and he stirred a bit in his seat, immediately bristling at the intentional mangling of his rank. “Sergeant, I told you,” he retorted, then resolved to stop being so free with information. Still a Soviet. Still the enemy, temporary truce notwithstanding. “Honestly, I don’t care what I eat at this point. Just happy not to be starving,” he said with less edge in his voice. That was another bit of truth. “I gather I won’t be getting much in the way of answers, but what is this place and how did you know about it?”

 

Lancelot stopped what he was doing and just looked at the man for a full solid minute, his eyebrow raised, as if Dryden’s question had confused him. He picked up a big knife and pointed it at the Brit.

“Right. _Sergeant,”_ he corrected himself cheerfully. “My mistake.” He flailed the knife around until he suddenly, and very violently, stabbed a tin of canned… something. Beef chunks, he believed. Stabbing the can open, because it’s not like he could use a can opener without looking like a fool. “This place...” he continued, pouring the contents of the can into a saucepan and then repeating the process a few more times, magically revealing one ingredient after the other. “...is a secret bunker. Funded by the Soviet army and designed to be a tool for us to win the war.” He stirred around in the pans. Obvious, evading answers and not really revealing anything. Bullshit. He was good at that.

“I know about it… because I am in the Soviet Army. An Officer—a Lieutenant—for now. But I’m ambitious, that rank will surely change soon enough,” he winked. “Aiming for the stars, you know? Gotta get up there if we wanna win this thing.”

Cooking dinner in this place wasn’t exactly rocket science, since pretty much everything was already cooked. All he had to do was to read the labels on the cans, and heat them up. Not even the one-armed, half-dead Russian could fuck that up. He sloshed the now warm contents of the cans up on two plates as neatly as he could. Didn’t look as appetising as a homemade meal, but at least it was a hundred times better than the tacky porridge you got out in the field. Lancelot picked up the two plates, balancing them on one arm, and then went back for cutlery and the bottle of vodka.

“But enough about me. What I want to know is who _you_ are and how you ended up down here with me?” Lancelot said as he sat down across the Brit. “How did you know where to find me? How did you carry me through the snow? How did you find this place? How did you get inside?” Once Lancelot had started talking, there seemed to be no off-button in sight. “Why were you guys scouting in the woods? How did you get across the border without being seen? What were you doing there? What’s your name?” The Lieutenant shoved a piece of meat inside his mouth and moaned in delight. “Oh, _fuck,_ this shit is delicious—you should try it—do you have my arm in your bag?”

 

Dryden’s eyes practically bulged as he was buffeted by a barrage of questions, half of which didn’t even make sense to him. He had expected to receive little in the way of useful information and was entirely correct. Perhaps this was the Soviet’s counter-interrogation technique? Distracting his opponent with so many questions that he’d forget that _he_ was the one asking them…

When he was finally finished speaking and now greedily eating his beef, Dryden exhaled and blinked a few times. “Is that how they barter out here in Russia?” he asked sagely as he speared a large chunk of boiled meat. “I ask two, you answer—sort of—and then expect me to answer seven? I don’t think so.” He gave the Soviet a half smile, keen eyes glinting in the fluorescent light. “Tell you what, just to be fair, I’ll answer two. I found this place because you showed me the way while I mostly carried you—with a bit of help from you—and you also told me how to find the combination from your gun. Look at that, I actually answered three!” So pleased with himself, Dryden shoved the large piece of meat in his mouth and hummed happily. “Oh, this _is_ good… nice and salty.” After chewing it, he swallowed and said, “Your arm is in your satchel that I took the other day though I don’t think you can reattach it easy. That answer was a bonus.”

He ate silently for a few minutes while the Soviet scarfed his down, for he wasn’t nearly as hungry as he was yesterday. “Alright, my turn then. If this place was just a regular outpost for your forces, it wouldn’t be so well stocked. You know damn well your side is suffering like ours is. So how about if you stop treating me like a corned moron and tell the truth or just say you won’t answer? I’m pretty good at sniffing out lies. Okay, that was one. So my other one is, why do you have a British name?” He couldn’t help but smirk at the question, knowing he’d drive the Soviet insane with it and snaked the bottle of vodka from his weak hand, taking a long swig from it then coughing. “Holy fuck, that’s awful!” he shrieked. 

 

 _Slippery little snake,_ Lancelot thought. He _was_ going to give the Sergeant a pretty rude, mean speech after so bluntly dodging all of his questions. But then the guy stole the bottle, and his amazingly entertaining reaction to the strong spirits caused Lancelot to burst out in a loud, barking laughter which eventually evolved into a coughing fit. The Lieutenant's eyes teared at the pain as he felt the stitches holding his chest together rip open.

 _Oh fuck_.

He managed to hide the pain well enough and went back to focus on his dinner, looking up at the Brit once in a while, chuckling while shaking his head. “Amateur,” he muttered under his breath, unable to stop grinning. “I have no idea how you know my name, or even if it’s true that you do,” he then said, deciding to ignore all of the man’s questions for now and just counter them with his own. “But if you do know it, it hardly seems fair for you to have such a personal information about me when I know absolutely nothing about you. So I ask you again, what’s your name, Sergeant?”

Lancelot could feel blood seeping out from the wound and how the bandage tried its best to absorb it, but fuck if he was going to the infirmary without finishing his dinner. He was starving. The injury could wait.

 

“If what’s true?” Dryden asked, perplexed. “If your name is British? Well, it’s from a famous story from Arthurian Legend about a pure, honourable knight named Lancelot. That’s you, right? Lancelot Volkov.” Somewhere in his mind, Dryden realised he was giving this man ample reason to attempt to murder him. The Soviet seemed very interested in keeping secrets, even if he didn’t do it as well as he thought.

The Brit was still a little sore from being mocked for not enjoying the taste of rubbing alcohol, and groused, “I’d take an ale over that anytime. Or even whiskey. That shit is poison, pure and simple.”

He was prepared to stonewall the other officer at the name request, feeling a bit churlish now, but that all disappeared when he saw a little red button blooming on one of the Soviet’s bandages. _Fast._

“What did you do?” he asked quickly, jumping up from his seat and rushing to the Russian’s side. Lancelot attempted to brush him off, but the wound in his chest had reopened and Dryden hadn’t done all that stitching to have a stubborn Soviet bleed to death anyway. Without heeding any vocal or physical protests, Dryden abruptly wrapped his arms around Lancelot’s body and swept him off his seat and back to the mattress on the floor, next to where he left the medical supplies. With the Soviet on his back again, the Brit cut through the ruined bandaged and cursed at the damage that was done. He whipped the vodka bottle from Lancelot’s hand and poured some on the wound, holding him down when he struggled.

“Stop—for fuck’s sake—stop fighting me!” he growled as he rummaged through the medical kit for a fresh needle and thread and some scissors to cut out the ruined ones. “Dryden,” he added quickly, hoping hearing his name would calm Lancelot down. “My name is Dryden Lore and I lived in Mile End in London. Now, please hold _still!”_

 

“Stop—I don’t need—I’ll fix it after I’ve—” Lancelot howled, trying his best to kick the crazy Brit of off him before he made it even worse. A long chain of Russian curses followed and he used all of his brute strength to squirm out of the man’s grip. He may be injured, but he was _way_ stronger than your average soldier. There was a reason they called him the War Machine. “I’m not going to die so you can—” the sound of the soldier’s name—and home—made Lancelot stop protesting.

_Mile End? Isn’t that the…? So the Sergeant comes from a... oh. Ohh. Shit._

The Lieutenant remained still and on his back for the rest of the procedure, looking up at the Serge—Dryden—with a very intense gaze. He was a British soldier. A _Jewish_ , British soldier somehow having survived crossing all of Nazi Germany and eventually gotten stationed here? In the middle of fucking nowhere in the USSR? What the hell was going on? He tilted his head, examining every single trait of the man’s face. _Dryden’s_ face. The man was so beautiful that Lancelot just wanted to grab his neck and strangle him. God was truly punishing him, locking him up with someone like that, forcing him to be this close…

The Brit was concentrating very hard, seemingly ignoring his Soviet rival. He poured some more Vodka into the wound, making Lancelot wince, but he did his best to remain still. He didn’t want to fuck up his chest again and end up on his back a third time. The longer he laid there, the more Lancelot had time to _think._ And when the Sergeant finally sat up and inspected his work, the Lieutenant couldn’t remain silent anymore. He sat up, and took a deep breath.

“What the _fuck_ kind of name is Dryden?”, the Russian asked, flailing his arms—arm—in the air. “Seriously, how did you survive pre-school? Was your family rich? Did they bribe the kids not to beat you up?” Lancelot was genuinely curious and did not mean to insult, even if it came out sounding like one. His face then softened, and he gave the man a shy smile. “Thank you,” he added, giving the man a punch on the shoulder followed by a pretty brutal pat on the back. “Thank you, Sergeant Dryden Lore from Mile End, for saving my life…” he grimaced awkwardly. “Again.”

 

“What the fuck is preschool?” Dryden asked absently as he finished stitching the other man back up. “And are you some kind of British name expert?” he asked rhetorically. “You know having one doesn't mean you know what they all are. And how did _you_ avoid getting beaten up for your odd name? I'm going to guess _your_ family is rich since that's the conclusion you leapt to, and you have access to this underground palace.” He knotted the thread and leaned in to bite the thread, having no idea whatsoever that Lancelot was having issues with his proximity. The Soviet glared at him and he shrugged. “What do you want? John Dryden was my dad’s favourite poet so the name became mine. And I'm quiet and fast so that's how I avoided a beating from the locals.”

Dryden rubbed the sweat off his forehand on his forearm then gently wiped the blood away from Lancelot’s chest. “Don't sit up so fast. I don't want to do that third time.” He frowned, unsure of how to react to the Soviet’s sudden injection of humility. “You saved mine too, you know,” he admitted quietly, eyes downcast. “I would have died in that storm. So whether you intended to or not, you did the same for me.”

 

All of Lancelot’s body screamed to get up and run away from him before it became painfully obvious that he was not… normal. He was wearing too little clothes to be able to conceal himself, should his body betray him like it had done again and again. He gulped. He _mustn't_ let the man know. His anxiety made him grit his teeth. “Well, don’t get used to it,” Lancelot chortled nervously. “Can’t really go around saving Brits from blizzard all day, can I?” He gave the man another punch on the shoulder and strategically placed a blanket in his lap.

He faked a shiver. “Brrr! It’s getting chilly in here, don’t you agree? I’m cold. Are you cold? Of course you are. You wouldn’t be interested in doing me a little favour and get me some warmer clothes, would you? There’s a door in the latrine leading to storage and laundry room, and it is _filled_ with various uniforms and other, more civvy-looking outfits. Feel free to take what you want. You’ll probably find a better version of _your_ uniform in there. I’d do it myself but you know,” he gestured at his left shoulder and grimaced. “Half of me is still lying in your satchel, soo… not very easy for me to move around right now.”

He took a few deep breaths, trying to settle down this sudden and unwanted jittery feeling making his stomach feel like a restless thunderstorm. “Pretty please?” he added, speaking a little slower this time. “I’ll tell you where the hatch to the next level is.

 

Dryden scowled and rubbed his now sore arm, hating these ridiculous shows of masculinity. “A simple thanks is fine,” he muttered as he started to put the medical supplies away. “And I don’t think there were any other Brits to save out there, so I guess it was my lucky day.” 

He laughed anxiously when Lancelot pointed how entirely unclothed he was, feeling pretty silly for leaving him like that when there were so many garments around. He hadn’t really analysed why he hadn’t at least given the poor chap some trousers, going with quick instead of thorough. Besides, he figured he’d have to get a look at the bandages anyway. No sense in dressing him up if he’d have to undress him again. _Nursemaid to the enemy… How strange can this get?_

“I’m not even going to ask why you have British Army uniforms in here,” he finally said with a sigh, standing to do as Lancelot asked. Why the other officer suddenly felt like he couldn’t walk after stalking all over the kitchen was another mystery. Maybe he was suddenly tired. Dryden shrugged as he headed into the latrine and foraged for some warm clothes, settling on a wool sweater and matching trousers that looked to be about Lancelot’s size. When he made to return, walking through the bedroom, he saw Lancelot was already there, having somehow pushed three beds together and that threw the whole too-in-pain-to-walk scenario out the window.

Dryden’s face went red from indignant anger. What was he, this Soviet’s personal valet now? The Brit huffily threw the clothes in Lancelot’s face and shouted, “You seem able to take care of yourself, so do us both a favour and remind yourself that I’m not your understrapper, Lieutenant!” Then he grabbed the Soviet’s satchel from earlier and flung it next to the bed, pushing his own as far from Lancelot as possible. “I was going to ask you if you needed help getting all that grime off of you, but it looks like you’ve got everything under control. I’m not here to be your porter.” He sat down heavily, wondering exactly what he _was_ here for.

 

Lancelot sat up, a little too fast, and almost toppled over as all the colour in his face drained. Fuck, couldn’t the wound just close up already so he could focus on finding a way to put his arm back together?

Dryden’s shouting caused a powerful rage to rise in the Soviet’s chest. “Yes, I _do_ have everything under control. I _don’t_ need your help and if you don’t want to be here, by all means, get the fuck outta my sight and throw yourself head-first back into that raging blizzard trying its best to tear down the entire fucking mountain!” Lancelot yelled back, half of it in Russian. “Fuck if I care…!”

His chest was heaving violently, threatening to rip open the stitches once again. He angrily put the trousers on and left the room with his bag thrown over what was left of his left shoulder. Lancelot did not bother informing Dryden that the code to get out of the building wasn’t the same as the one they’d used to get in, and even he wasn’t exactly sure what it was. He had to find the correct document and decipher the words written on it for that. They were both stuck down here until then.

The young soldier marched down the halls until he reached a control room. He didn’t expect to actually be able to get inside, but he managed to guess the correct password on the second try. It worried him a little bit, the way his father chose sentimental words or numbers as the only thing keeping unauthorised people from getting their hands on such sensitive information. Sure, he knew his father better than most, but if _he_ could guess it…

Lancelot dropped the bag with the bloodied arm on an oval table placed in the centre of the room and dramatically sank down in a black leather armchair. The wall behind him was covered in screens and an enormous dashboard. Radios and complicated machines he’d never seen before. Even though everything was in Russian, Lancelot did not understand half of the stuff going on on the screens. He was more of the brute force type of guy rather than a science freak, despite the advanced technology hooked up to his brain.

He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He was in more pain than he cared to admit—even to himself—and he wasn’t sure if he could go through this again. He didn’t feel sorry for himself and he refused to wallow in self-pity, but he was tired. He hadn’t meant what he said to the Brit but his pride kept him from going back and apologise. So he sat there, watching the screens, trying to make some sense out of it. He tuned a little on one of the buttons and suddenly one of the sappiest songs he’d ever heard was spewing out from every single speaker on this level. Apparently he’d found a radio station. A _British_ radio station, judging by the sound of it.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Dryden asked an empty room after the wounded Soviet stormed off. He didn’t even understand most of the words, but the emotion behind them was clear as day. He’d outraged Lancelot somehow, even though it was the Russian who was being inconsiderate. “I always thought of myself as a fine roommate,” he sighed as he walked out of the bedroom and headed back to the disaster that was the kitchen.

Without thinking much, he started to clean up, using the tap water that was clean and clear to wet a dishrag to wipe up the spills and splatters. Then he washed the dishes, rinsed them, and carefully dried them before putting them away. _Just like Mum_ — _you clean when you’re angry,_ he thought to himself with a trace of melancholy. _I don’t believe in God, but if you’re there, I hope you’re taking good care of her._ He took his time with the rest, letting the process be detailed and lengthy, and actually enjoying this small spate of normality instead of bombs and blood. It almost felt like he was at a mate’s house, cleaning up after a big dinner. A nice thought. He didn’t really have any of those left.

He was finally distracted by his self-imposed cleaning purgatory by the sound of running water from the latrine. Shower water. “What the fuck—?” he muttered to himself before he headed there. There was no way this Soviet was stupid enough to get his bandages and stitches wet, was there?

 

It did not take long for Lancelot to grow bored of the screens. Too many letters and numbers he could not understand the meaning of. Important information, sure, but how valuable was it when he didn’t know _why_ it was important? The man yawned and stood up, promising himself to come back to them later, after getting some more rest. Maybe a shower. He definitely needed one of those. It had been a while.

Making sure to close the door carefully, Lancelot slowly made his way to the showers. He turned on the water and let it run long enough for it to get steaming hot, just the way he liked it. If that annoying Brit knew what he was doing he would probably scream and scold him like a fucking overprotective mother. Well, his mother was dead so joke’s on him. And besides, he’d been through this before. He _knew_ what his body could handle, and what it couldn’t. A harmless shower wouldn’t cause any problems he didn’t already have. So he unwrapped the bandages until his torso was fully exposed, and then removed the rest of his apparel.

Before getting into the water, Lancelot inspected himself in the mirror. The prosthetic arm had been blown off just below the shoulder, the wrecked end melted into a chaotic mess of cables, metal and other things the Lieutenant didn’t know what it was. How was he supposed to repair something when he didn’t understood how it worked? He had to find the blueprints of this thing.

He looked back into the mirror. It was a pretty pathetic sight. He was pale, greasy and covered in mud. Black rings under his eyes made him look ten years older than he was. The usual well-groomed stubble had been allowed to grow wild the last couple of days. He really was a mess. No wonder Dryden felt like he could boss him around. There was no trace of the ruthless War Machine anywhere in that mirror. Lancelot sighed and walked over to the showers, sticking his right hand into the running water. Hot. Clean. Wonderful. He really needed this.

 

Apparently, they didn’t give basic physiology training to Russian soldiers, Dryden thought grimly as he advanced into the latrine. The Soviet was testing the water, making all sorts of happy cooing noises, but there was no way the Sergeant was going to allow him to ruin everything. Just as Lancelot began to step in, Dryden reached out and slipped his arm under his shoulder and pulled back hard. “I don’t think so!” he said angrily. “You’ll ruin your bandages and strain your stitches!”

Lancelot cursed at him in Russian and shoved him with his one arm, but the Brit didn’t retreat. Instead, he wrapped his other arm around the Soviet’s grubby body and pulled him into his arms. As expected, Lancelot fought and flailed but the harder he tried to sever them, the firmer Dryden’s grip. Arms locked and his foe didn’t have a chance, especially with one arm. No leverage, no way to dislodge. “If you want me to clean you up, I will!” Dryden hissed, his mouth by Lancelot’s ear as he restrained him. “But I won’t let you undo everything I did! I didn’t save your life to let your stubbornness and pride put you in your grave!”

 

Lancelot fought and squirmed and pushed. Throwing curses at him, as usual. One meaner than the other. Good thing he didn’t understand most of them. If he _really_ tried, the Soviet was sure that he would be able to, physically, overthrow this little runt. He was so much taller than him and almost twice as wide. His body made out of nothing but muscles. But the soldier was absolutely exhausted, mentally, and when Dryden’s arms tightened around him, his voice whispering angry—but caring—words in his ears, something inside of the larger man broke. A wall, keeping the Soldier’s mind clear and detached from the so very human emotions belonging to the boy trapped inside.

With his one arm he wrapped himself around the Brit as hard as he could, and hiccuped. A couple of warm, salty tears fell down on Dryden’s shoulders as Lancelot buried his head in the crook of his neck, and whimpered. He tried to speak, but there was no words escaping his mouth, only sniffles and mournful moans. “I…I—” the man stuttered, tightening the hug. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dryden was fairly certain he’d seen enough of the world to never be surprised by anything anymore. That was, until the angry Soviet embraced him and literally cried on his shoulder. At first, he stood stock still, not quite understanding what was happening except that Lancelot had given up the struggle. Then he felt him shaking, heard the gurgling noises from his throat and realised that he was holding on to someone who was breaking down before his eyes. 

Nowhere in basic training (or any type of training) did it say what to do with a soldier who was having a meltdown like this. He was no counsellor or psychologist. He didn’t know what to do! Or what he should do with a weeping enemy who sought comfort… Though why he was so shaken Dryden didn’t understand at all. But that didn’t stop him from holding the Soviet closer, stroking his filthy hair in a soothing motion. These responses came natural to him somehow, an unearthing of his long-abandoned humanity. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. What could even be said to make sense of this absurd situation? When everything is ridiculous, the only thing to do was to go with it. So, the Sergeant did, feeling oddly comforted himself in being soft with this man—this man who held him harder than a friend, more fiercely than a brother. Not warm or soft, but strong… just like the beating of his heart in his chest. Or was it the Russian’s? With how tightly they were fused together l, it was impossible to distinguish. 

Dryden had never been held this way before but that didn’t mean he was unaware of what this was. Sweeter than family, deeper than friendship… left only one thing. He felt his chest shudder in something close to fear but not quite and he licked his lips, finding them surprisingly dry.

He didn’t mind any of this… Not the odour of the Soviet’s body, the discomfort from where Lancelot’s fingers dug into his shoulder, not even the hard bulge pressed against his thigh. It all felt… normal to him. Natural. Like he’d felt this a thousand times before. Somewhere inside, he realise that this was something he’d craved for some time, never considering that his disinterest in women meant something other than preoccupation with war or protectiveness for his sister. Where he came from, it was scorned, certainly, but men carried on with other men all the time and as long as they were discreet, no one cared.

What could be more discreet than an abandoned bunker thirty feet below ground? Curiosity bloomed in the Brit’s mind and body, wondering if he was right that Lancelot felt as he did. So when Lancelot stopped sobbing and grew still, then lifted his head to look the Sergeant in the eyes, Dryden closed them and slowly moved in to kiss him on the lips.

 

Lancelot’s body continued to tremble and shake for some time. The Soldier was still trying to hold back, to get himself together and run away to fuck knows where. Maybe he could isolate himself in one of the lower levels until he was well enough to travel? Lancelot was seriously considering doing just that when Dryden placed a hand on the back of his neck, stroking him gently. The Brit whispered soothing words and Lancelot just… well, the dam burst and every single emotion Lancelot had suppressed during the war rushed to the surface in the form of desperate, exhausted tears. The tightness of the embrace made their bodies rub together, Lancelot’s naked skin against Dryden’s soft uniform. The Lieutenant was barely aware of it. He only knew that it felt unbelievable good to be this close to this man. It felt safe.

It took nearly half an hour before the traumatised soldier's loud sobs faded into soft whimpers, and even longer until they were completely gone. Silence now, yet the two men stil remained in the same position, neither of them willing to let go of the other. Once his body had stopped shivering, Lancelot looked up to meet Dryden’s eyes and gasped as he suddenly found himself standing there with a pair of soft lips on his own. Lancelot had never kissed a man before (or a woman either, for that matter) and he did not know what to do next. He froze, and didn’t even dare to breathe. But he didn't retreat either. Slowly and tryingly, the Soviet began to move his lips, following his instincts and the shameful thirst he’d suppressed for so long. The kiss soon evolved from awkward hesitation to sloppy chaos as Lancelot’s reservations were torn down and replaced by the powerful desire he’d always had brewing just beneath the surface.

He took a step forward, and then another, forcing the Sergeant to back up until he reached a wall. With his right arm, Lancelot picked the man up and used his massive body to pin him there. His heart was racing, his chest rising and falling as if he was about to start hyperventilating. His cock—rock fucking hard—was throbbing painfully. He moaned and cooed joyfully, his mouth never leaving Dryden’s lips. 

 _This,_ he thought.  _This is what I want. This is what I need._ There was no going back now, no stopping, no… no… NO!

“NO!” the Lieutenant shrieked, taking a step backwards and releasing the poor boy trapped beneath him and the wall. “Nonononno. No!” he continued, leaning his forehead against Dryden’s, his eyes shut and his face tilted down in shame. If his father ever found out… fuck. He would die. They would  _both_ die. “I’m sorry, Soldier, I… I can’t,” he mumbled, breathing heavily, his body trembling with need and desire. And shame. Mostly with shame. 

 _But I want to,_ he screamed internally.  _Fuck, I want to. I want him._ Lancelot wasn’t even sure what that meant. All he knew was that this man in front of him was the key. The key to what? _Everything._  

Lancelot’s hand reached up to cup Dryden’s face. “Forgive me, Sergeant. I shouldn’t have... I didn't mean to... sorry.”  

 

At first the kiss was basically chaste, even if that wasn't the sentiment behind it. But gradually—then not so gradually—it morphed into something very different. Dryden was quickly swept along by the passion he and Lancelot shared, having zero experience with anything like this but somehow finding his way. Wholly new sensations followed, to the point where he wondered if this could even be considered kissing anymore, his back against the wall and the Soviet’s tongue plundering his mouth. What he did know was that he thoroughly enjoyed it, as evidenced by his stifled groans and grasping hands. 

The second the Lieutenant broke away, air filled the Brit’s lungs like a bellows and he clutched a hand to his chest as though he had to apply pressure to keep his heart inside his body. Even then, even as he voiced some sort of refusal, Lancelot did not let him go.

In a daze, Dryden mumbled, “Hmm? Sorry for what?” Confused, intoxicated from Lancelot’s addictive kisses, he leaned into the hand on his face and covered it with his own. “Ah, that's alright,” he said, feeling a renewed urge to comfort him. “No harm done.”

As much as he had no idea what to do during the kissing, he had even less of one of what to do afterwards. “Hey, let's just rinse your face and hair, yeah?” he offered, grasping for something to say or do to break the tension. He walked a docile Lancelot back to the shower and helped him lean back so his head and neck were under the stream, washed clean. “There now, that's better, isn't it?”

 

“Mmm,” Lancelot creaked as the hot water soaked his hair and washed away any remains of mud and dried blood. His eyes remained closed, and it wasn't only to protect them from the water. It was just... it was too difficult to look at the other man right now. The man he’d just…  _Shit._  Lancelot was so ashamed of himself, of his actions and of his body’s reaction to the whole spectacle.

The Lieutenant did not remember getting dressed—trousers only, to make it easier to change the bandages—nor how he got back to the sleeping hall, but suddenly there he was, lying across the same three beds he’d pushed together not that long ago. He remained quiet, and so did Dryden, both of them having a lot of things on their minds. There seemed to be no need for talking. A new bond of mutual understanding and respect had been formed; two Soldiers on the opposite sides of the same war, forced to work together for a common goal—Survival.

Lancelot was lying on his right side, leaning against Dryden and using him as support to ease some of the pressure over his demolished chest. Dryden had his arms wrapped around him, holding him close, his body pressed tightly against Lancelot’s back, and the Lieutenant let it happen. No, he not only let it happen—he  _wanted_ it to. He was so confused. He didn’t know this man! For all he knew, the Sergeant could be a spy planted into the Lieutenant's life by the British army. Every event up until now could’ve been planned! How could he know if this was just a chance meeting or a well organised plot by the enemy? How could he trust that it was  _real?_ That this man needed his protection as much as he needed his help? 

The Soviet sighed, the fingers of his right hand intertwining themselves with the hand resting on his sore chest. “Who are you?” he murmured faintly, squeezing his enemy’s hand, afraid of the answer.

 

Dryden couldn’t believe how comfortable it was sharing a mass of beds with another man. It reminded him of happier times, when he and his family lived without fear. They were very poor, but there was love in those shabby walls and he and his sister had to share a bed. They would tell each other stories until they fell asleep, not minding the whistles of the trains or vibrations of the tracks. In the morning, their parents would already be gone to work and Dryden would make them breakfast and walk Josie to school, ignoring the taunts of the other children who mocked them for their threadbare clothes and worn shoes. They had each other and no one else mattered. God, how he missed her… He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her until now, feeling that he would melt if he let those sweet memories invade his mind. But only the pleasant contentment came now and he closed his eyes, relaxed with this strange man in his arms.

Of course, the Sergeant knew this situation was very different from the one he shared with his sibling. Lancelot wasn’t even British, much less a family member, and their feelings for each other were very different from familial. At least, that was what he ascertained from their furious snogging in the latrine.

Dryden was quietly resting when Lancelot’s question perked up his ears. “Who am I?” he echoed in amusement. “I told you. Sergeant Dryden Lore of the British Army.” He squeezed his hand back. “Are you struggling with amnesia or are you asking a more profound question?”

 

The Lieutenant bit his lower lip anxiously.  _Sergeant Dryden Lore_. Yes, he’d already mentioned that. It just... didn't make any sense at all! They shouldn’t have been able to cross the border, because there were outposts fucking everywhere. And this man definitely shouldn’t have been able to enter the town alone and proceed to sneak up on  _him!_  Just what was he? The seeds of doubt and suspicion inside Lancelot’s mind were beginning to grow, poisoning his thoughts and the potential to bond with this man. It was dangerous. So very, very dangerous to lie here like this. To let Dryden live hour after hour even though he knew the fucking code to get into this place. No matter what happened between them, Lancelot could not allow him to leave his side alive once they got out of this place. The Soviet Army could not afford to lose this place to the enemy.

“I don’t trust you, Dryden,” Lancelot said. Lying with his back turned against him. Unarmed. Severely injured. Practically pinned down and unable to move. This man had seen him more exposed than any other person on the planet, and he wasn’t talking about him not wearing any clothes. No... the Lieutenant had a lot of secrets hidden inside his head, secrets Dryden now knew about. Secrets that could destroy him. And the Sergeant had literally embraced it with open arms! Lancelot yawned and scooted closer to the man, actually feeling chilly this time even though his body was burning up.

“Can you tell me something about you?" he asked quietly. "Something real? Something nobody else knows?”

 

Whatever murderous thoughts Lancelot was harbouring were neither anticipated nor reciprocated by the Brit who was just pleased as punch to be full, clean, and warm. He’d lost sight of the war and its principles years ago, before he was even drafted. His life had been a struggle for survival for some time and this was just another level to it. And he assumed everyone in his position felt the same. He had no access to intel or sensitive information and didn’t know it when he saw it. Honestly, it was just nice to lie down and not watch the sky for once. 

The Soviet said something harsh to him but not with his voice behind it and Dryden stirred behind him, wondering if he was being ejected from the bed. But then Lancelot pressed harder against him, not in a shoving him away kind of way, but in an inviting sort of way. The Sergeant made a perplexed face behind his back and tightened his embrace.

“You are a strange one,” he observed without anger or malice. “Something nobody else knows… hmm…” he said, tapping his bottom lip with his index finger, as though contemplating the mysteries of the universe. “Oh, I know! I recently kissed another boy.” He chuckled to himself, for he found this conversation to be absurdly funny. But then he felt Lancelot shift uncomfortably, and held him close again. 

“Okay… okay, not what you meant,” he said. “I told you I lived on Mile End. Well, my house was destroyed in the Blitz—the entire block was. And my parents died that night. So my sister and I went to live with my Uncle Roger. He is a retired steamer captain who now mans a post at the docks. Not a terribly good salary, that. So he has a roommate named Steven, a bloke who used to be on steamers with him. The two of them never were married—old bachelors, we call them. Never seen either of them with a lady, even though I lived there two years. Seemed as content as could be with each other. I didn’t really think much about that before—that particular situation—but now I am. Is _that_ what you meant?” 

 

 _P_ _lease, kill me now,_ Lancelot thought, actually blushing scarlet due to Dryden’s choice of topic. How could the man just lie there and talk about…  _that_ stuff so bluntly? As if that kind of relation between two men was the most natural thing in the world? And… and the story didn’t even have anything to do with Dryden at all! Lancelot was still just as clueless whether or not he should trust him as he had been before. Only difference now was that he was feeling even  _more_ uncomfortable. Ugh. He almost missed lying in the snow slowly bleeding to death. Alone. The Russian couldn’t do much but scoff in reply. This conversation was far too awkward.

“Interesting story, but if your sister and two men lived there too it isn’t exactly something only  _you_ know about, and it wasn’t about you either, was it?” he managed to mumble after a few moments of silence. “Your answer is invalid.  _I_ get another question.” Not that he had any more in storage. Well, he had a thousand questions. The problem was that he was fairly sure that Dryden wouldn't answer any of them willingly. Lancelot remained quiet for a little while.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” the Soviet said eventually, his voice quiet. “Is that why you joined the army? To get revenge on the men responsible for the attack?”

 

Apparently, missing the point was something Lancelot was going to do regularly. Dryden sighed and settled further into the bed, having given broaching a difficult topic his best shot. The Soviet clearly didn’t want to talk about what happened just outside the shower and that probably meant he was deeply ashamed of it and was not planning on doing anything like it in the future. Which made their current cuddling arrangement a bit odd, but it wasn’t like the Sergeant to think deeply about these sorts of things. He… existed. He acted on instinct. Shutting his mind off was what kept him alive this long, after all. 

At least Lancelot wasn’t flipping out on him like he had already, a few times. Progress. He had no qualms about answering his questions, finding them diverting and not considering himself important enough to hide anything. He would be dead before this war was over anyway, probably dead before this winter was over. Why be truculent now?

“How does one get revenge on a bomb falling from the sky?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling, remembering that freezing night vividly. It was raining, so their makeshift bomb shelter was flooded. He and his sister hid in the kitchen while his parents hid in the closet in the bedroom. Half the house collapsed, killing them, while the kitchen remained standing, almost a like a set for a theatre production. Even the tile was still white. But now they were alone, and still huddling together, afraid of another wave that would take them this time. But they were spared. Most of the block was incinerated and the ones who could walk away did so, trudging through the mud towards the center of town to meet with all of the new refugees who were now homeless…

“No, I didn’t want revenge,” he finally said. “We didn’t mean anything to the Germans who bombed us. It was the city they wanted to terrorise. If you tear down a house, do you give a thought to the termites living in the wood? That’s all we were to them. How could I beat something like that?” He sighed again, feeling helpless and small once more. “My sister and I went to live with my uncle and I got a job unloading crates on the docks til my number came up and I was forced to enlist and leave her behind. She joined too, as a nurse. I think she’s in Italy now.” He licked his lips and looked down at the Soviet’s hair, deciding he had nothing to lose in touching it.

“What about you, Lancelot? Were you trying to get revenge on someone?”

 

The Soviet was almost half asleep when Dryden’s fingers ran through his hair. He sighed contentedly, his body growing warmer. The alcohol in his system was quickly burned away, leaving the pain from the injury there without anything to sedate it. His mind was spinning, his head pounding. Lancelot moaned and rolled over to his back. The Sergeant’s fingers were so soft against his sensitive scalp... it just felt too good to roll away from it now. 

“Forced to enlist, hmm?” het asked, trying to get as comfortable as he could. “You poor, innocent little thing.” Lancelot meant it. He’d never liked that system, forcing people into serving their country… He understood  _why_ it was necessary—they were in war and needed numbers. But force and threats did not create good, loyal soldiers. It was the recipe for deserters and mass graves. The Lieutenant had never been a fan of civilian casualties.

“Me? Revenge?” he shook his head. “No, my whole family was still alive back then. I signed up because I wanted to. Was told I had the chance to make the world a better place!” he chuckled humorlessly. “Enlisted the very day I turned eighteen. Waited outside the office for  _hours_ before it finally opened. I was  _so_ excited to finally get the chance to prove myself!”

Dryden’s hand brushed against his neck, making Lancelot shiver. “Army brat,” he explained. “My parents were so proud of me.”

 

“Eighteen was it, you old-timer?” Dryden said in a teasing voice. “By the time they got down to me, I was only seventeen, but they were so desperate, they’d take anyone who could walk straight while holding a rifle.” He laughed lightly to himself. “I barely qualified.” 

Now that Lancelot was on his back, Dryden slid an arm underneath his neck and continued to play with his hair, pleased the Soviet didn’t seem to mind. He had no idea why he felt compelled to pet him like this, but again, not really someone who questioned himself. “Did you?” he asked softly as he settled his head back on the pillow, his lips centimeters from the Russian’s ear. “Did you make the world a better place? I’m joking of course—the world’s a mess. But did you prove yourself? You’re a Lieutenant. That has to be impressive to your Army family. Are they proud of you?”

 

Lancelot bit his lip, thinking about the many, many men killed by his hand. The orders from his father, urging him to do it faster. To push himself beyond what should've been physically possible. To be more brutal, ruthless and frightening. He was a Ghost. The War Machine... a great, powerful brick in his father’s game. Created to obey order. And he did it. No matter what they asked him to do, he obeyed. But it was never enough.  _You can do better,_ they said.  _You have so much more potential than the others._

“No,” Lancelot finally replied. “No... they’re… my mother died. And my father, well…” he hesitated. “He is a man very hard to please. He has a lot of expectations and plans for my future.”

Lancelot wasn’t sure why he told Dryden this. It didn’t matter anyway, so why talk about it? The Lieutenant sighed. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Sergeant. My job right now is to make amends for my previous failures. I don’t deserve praise or rewards, especially not after this fiasco of a mission,” he chuckled. “If I somehow  _don’t_ end up in the disciplinary barracks when I return, I’ll consider myself the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.”

 

“Hmm… I’d say that puts us rather at odds,” the Brit said, stifling a yawn. “No one ever expected anything of me.” It was true. He was a nobody in a worthless part of town and hadn’t even started taking his A-Levels and never would. “Sorry about your mum… And your dad, too, I guess. We don’t get a lot of control over our circumstances in this world.”  

Lancelot seemed quieter now, less conflicted and devouring himself on the inside. Dryden could feel it in the way his body stopped its little twitches, a nervous tic he wondered if the Soviet was even aware of. “We’ve all made mistakes,” the Sergeant said quietly. “It’s kind of the human experience. And don’t feel too badly about your mission. I think we fared worse.” He smiled to himself, finding it funny that he was talking about this with the enemy. But Lancelot wasn’t his foe right now. They were fellow survivors.

Dryden had thought even less about what would happen once the blizzard dissipated, though he briefly entertained the notion of living here until the war was finished. A lovely thought, that. Utterly impossible, but still much better than the reality would be. “I expect everyone assumes me dead,” he offered. “I guess I’ll have to correct them at some point, but I’m in no hurry. This fucking war has taken enough from me already. I just hope to see my sister again someday.” He nuzzled the brown hair at the base of Lancelot’s neck. It should have been dry by now but was still damp. “What about you? Is there someone you’re looking forward to seeing again after all this?”

 

It was getting hard, so very hard, for Lancelot to concentrate on the conversation. His mind was drifting further into sleep by each second, his feverish temperature not making it any easier to stay awake, but he tried his best to hold on, feeling as if he was in some kind of strange dream and not ready to leave it and make place for the nightmares quite yet. “You don’t understand,” he retorted quietly. “I’m not allowed to make mistakes.” 

The more relaxed he got, the more difficult it became to understand Dryden’s English accent. It was as if his brain was slowly shutting down, one section at a time. The Sergeant continued to reach for and caress his neck, and the stimulation was driving the barely conscious man insane. “Mmmm,” he replied with a moan, his body trembling under Dryden’s touch. “My mother and brother,” he confessed quite gruesomely, “but I’m pretty sure that will never happen.”

 

When he asked the question, Dryden was hoping to learn more than about the Soviet’s family. Like, if he had a sweetheart back home. Or even a wife. Instead, he got a nonsensical response. “I thought you said she was dead,” Dryden reminded him. “Or did you mean you want to see her in heaven? Do you actually believe in that stuff?” 

“Doesn’t matter what I believe in, does it? I’ll never see her again anyway,” Lancelot shrugged. “True—I burn in hell. False—gone forever.”

Dryden hummed softly. He felt Lancelot trembling as he gently caressed his skin, getting a ripple up his spine from his reaction. Not angry or afraid, just enjoying it. And Dryden found he was enjoying it too. Immensely. He tilted his head down and gently kissed his shoulder, thrilling at this new form of expression. This new tenderness with someone who wasn’t disgusted with him or thinking he was too lowly to get next to. It didn’t matter why it was happening, just that it was.

 

A pair of lips against his collarbone and Lancelot shivered violently, moaning blissfully. It felt so wonderful, to have someone touch him like this. So… safe. As if the raging war above them was gone and forgotten. “Wanna know a secret?” the Lieutenant whispered. “I  _hate_ it. I hate being a soldier.”

Odd thing to discuss in this situation, but Lancelot didn’t mind. He didn’t seem to mind anything right now, which was even odder. The way Dryden was touching him sent jolts of lightnings down his spine, and it was impossible not to shudder or moan as the sensation gave him more pleasure than he had ever experienced before. Who would’ve known that such a simple act of physical contact could be so powerful? They weren’t doing  _anything_ and Lancelot still felt as if he was going to explode at any moment! 

“Anyone who doesn’t isn’t a human being anymore. It’s good to know that you still are, isn’t it?” Dryden said, his voice so soft, so soothing, that the Lieutenant  _had_ to open his eyes and look at the man, just to make sure his face was as tender as he remembered. He turned his head and did exactly that, only to once again be greeted with the softest pair of lips.

Just like before, Lancelot froze in shock. He had not expected it to happen again so soon (or ever, for that matter!) and was taken completely by surprise. After that brief moment of shock, however, Lancelot returned the kiss eagerly, even though he was ridiculously inexperienced and even more exhausted. The result was nervous and messy. But he  _did_ it! He didn’t kick the man away or roll out of the beds. Instead, he pressed his lips hard against Dryden’s, moaning into his mouth as his heart seemed to be doing its best to punch its way through his stitches and leap out of his chest.

 

Dryden loved the way Lancelot responded to him, all pent up passion and fire. It was such a rush to receive it. And they were only kissing! He'd been led to believe by the local boys that kissing was for pussies and queers and real men did as little as possible to get to what really mattered. Well, the could call him whatever they wanted, and it would be far from the first time he was labelled either of those.

Lancelot's hand rushed up and plunged into his hair as Dryden’s tongue breached the other man’s mouth, sweeping against the hot muscle inside. One arm kept him propped up, not bearing weight on the Soviet’s ruined side while his free hand cupped Lancelot’s face, his thumb digging into his chin to pry his mouth open even wider.

 

Louder and louder, like a thundering panzer battalion, Lancelot’s heart throbbed, pumping around the blood in his body at an tremendous speed. Soon his breath was equally strained, but that didn’t stop the Soviet from pursuing this powerful fire roaring around inside of him. The kiss deepened, and had he had his full strength, the Lieutenant was sure this man would already be begging for mercy, even though he had no idea how to accomplish that sort of thing, or what it even meant. But, to his great dismay, Lancelot wasn't at his full strength. Quite the opposite, actually. With his injuries being as severe as they were, the Soviet was greatly weakened and his self-control was not what it used to be. And as the kiss continued to evolve into something fierce and violent Lancelot had never imagined he was capable of craving, the throbbing in his chest slowly migrated to a place on his body located a little more south.

Even though he only had one hand, Lancelot made sure to use it to the best of his ability. First it just lingered in Dryden’s hair, pressing the Sergeant’s mouth hard against his own. But soon it was pulling and tugging on the man’s clothes, very aggressively and impatiently. Lancelot wasn’t even sure what to do once he’d managed to get the man to strip, all he knew was that he  _really_ wanted it to happen. He deepened the kiss again, forcing his tongue inside Dryden’s mouth. The throbbing in his groin grew more powerful. He pulled the man into his lap, and with the strength a man with his injuries should not possess, the Soviet completely tore Dryden’s shirt open, making the buttons fly.

The very same moment, his body suddenly jerked. A loud, ecstatic groan escaped his throat, and Lancelot’s cock burst. The man fell down on his back again, his cock spewing out cum in spasms, drenching and completely ruining his new trousers.

“Fucking  _hell,_ ” the man cursed, slamming the back of his head into the soft pillow beneath him. He flung his arm across his face in a sad attempt to hide his embarrassment.

 

The intensity of their kissing mounted exponentially, to the point where, for one bewildering moment, Dryden wasn’t sure if he was being kissed or attacked. Lancelot yanked him over and Dryden slid a leg over his lap to keep from toppling over. Off balance, once again drunk off their passion, he somehow managed to keep up with the increasingly unhinged Soviet. But that didn’t mean he wanted it to stop, not with the fire in his blood raging. He felt Lancelot make a fist in the shirt on his back, pulling it tighter and tighter until it suddenly snapped open and Dryden pushed himself back, rubbing his own hardened shaft directly against the Soviet’s. 

He felt Lancelot cum more than he heard it, as the body under him gave a mighty lurch. He stopped, then his hands holding him over the Lieutenant’s trembling form, not entirely sure what had happened. Until he saw Lancelot go beet red with humiliation and cover his face.

“Oh… did you…?” Dryden mumbled in shock. “Ah, that’s alright. It’s… um… very flattering,” he managed to say as he climbed off Lancelot and looked around nervously, unsure of what to do. The Soviet’s pyjama trousers were visibly saturated and he looked like he wanted to be back out in the blizzard rather in here with him. “I’ll… ah… get you something to clean up,” he offered, slipping out of the bedroom and to the latrine. As he picked up a small hand towel and wet it in the sink, Dryden caught sight of his face in the mirror and gasped in astonishment. Naturally, his face was still flushed from the arousal and eroticism of what had just happened, but he also noted a small trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward and pulled at his bottom lip to investigate, finding two minor cuts from where Lancelot must have bitten him and he was too immersed in him to notice. He quickly washed them out and grabbed the towel, not meaning to have been gone so long and hoping the Soviet wasn’t growing anxious in his absence.

He heard his snoring before he fully opened the door and saw that the other man had fallen asleep directly as he lay. Still a mess, of course, but Dryden didn’t know what to do about that. He doubted Lancelot wanted him to fully undress him and examine him below the waist… And he wouldn’t without consent even if he was incredibly curious. Instead he wiped him over his pants with the towel and went back to the latrine to wash it out. But he didn’t go back to the bedroom right away, not with how… distracted he currently was.

Instead, he turned on the shower and undressed, then stepped in when the water was warm enough. All the while, he was preoccupied by the throbbing between his legs. Fucking hell, he’d never been so horny in his entire life! At least Lancelot got a release… even if it wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted it. The hot water streamed down his body and he shivered despite it, needing something more than a shower to relax him. This was as alone as he was going to get, at least for the foreseeable future, so the Brit took his engorged member in hand and stroked himself hard and fast. It didn’t take long before he climaxed, spattering the shower wall with his thick cum, all the while remembering the moans that had just come from Lancelot’s mouth.

Feeling immeasurably better, Dryden put his underwear and pyjama pants back on and returned to the bedroom. He slipped into bed next to Lancelot and pulled the blankets up around them, falling asleep almost immediately. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Lancelot didn’t wake up until several hours later, and the first thing he noticed was himself holding the Sergeant to his chest as if his life depended on it, clinging on to him like he normally clung onto his weapons. He gasped and jumped back, instantly releasing the man he’d almost crushed to death during his nightly seizures. 

 _Did we…? Are we…?_ _Fuck_.

Dryden seemed to be deeply asleep, and once he no longer was a prisoner in the Russian’s tight embrace, he rolled over on his back. Lancelot couldn’t help but glance down at the soft face. He’d never seen someone so beautiful before, his face was the literal definition of perfection! It irked him. He bit his lip hard and gulped, staring down at the sleeping Brit. The unwanted throb in his groin made everything worse, and despite knowing better, Lancelot reached out his hand to stroke the man’s cheek. Dryden suddenly stirred. The Soviet yelped and back-flipped out of the bed.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” the Lieutenant shrieked, his heart threatening to blow up in his chest, his face red as a baboon's arse. “I swear I wasn’t going to—” he stopped and looked at the man again. _Still asleep_. Or pretending to be. With a low grunt and a loud exhale, Lancelot yanked one of the blankets from the bed and wrapped it around his waist, grimacing as he felt the cold, damp fabric under his skin.

With one last look at Dryden’s face, Lancelot headed over to the latrine, determined to actually get a real shower this morning. So after he’d turned on the showers, the Soviet dropped the blanket on the cold floor tiles, and his pants soon followed. While waiting for the water to heat up, Lancelot stopped in front of a mirror. He washed his face with the cold sink water, and looked up to meet his own eyes.

 _I’ve just spent the night with the enemy,_ the man sighed. _What the hell is going on with me?_

It wasn’t like him to be this reckless. Giving away his supplies to a civilian… Talking back to his superior… Refusing to obey orders…  

_Shoot on sight._

That had been the mission, and he had purposely missed. He was guilty for insubordination, and worse. Because he hadn’t only let the target live, he’d also fucking fraternised with him. Slept in the same bed. _Kissed_. Lancelot’s cock throbbed between his legs, and he groaned. Dryden’s presence had ignited the embers Lancelot had worked so hard to choke, and now his body was turning into a full-blown forest fire, ready to devour everything in its path. He could feel himself change, and it frightened him.

_A distraction. I need a distraction._

The Lieutenant took a couple of deep breaths, straightened his back and unravelled the bandages wrapped around his torso. As expected, the deep cut in his skin was completely healed. No scar, no bruises. The only thing witnessing that it had ever been anything there were the stitches, neatly buried in his thick skin. Lancelot found a small scissor and cut them off, one by one until his torso was as smooth as it had been moments before the explosion. Since he was already standing there, he then took the opportunity to tend to his wild beard, grooming it until had been reduced to a neat layer of stubble, enhancing his strong jawline rather than hiding it. Satisfied with the results, the Soviet then entered the shower, moaning in delight as the hot water rinsed off the salty remnants of the night’s sweating marathon. 

 

Long accustomed to sleeping under adverse conditions, Dryden was barely roused through the night. Lancelot’s wailing only made the Brit reach out for him to comfort him in his sleep, for he had slept next to fellow soldiers with night terrors many times and knew what to do instinctively. The Soviet’s high temperature didn't bother him because he'd been through an Italian summer, where everyone slept naked in the dirt in the middle of the day, regardless of their constant perspiration. He didn't even wake when Lancelot jumped out of bed and yelled at him, because sudden movements and screaming were no cause for alarm in the trenches. If he was needed, or if he had to move, there would be a siren or someone would physically wake him. No one did.

He was only half awake by the time Lancelot stormed off and slowly came back to the world. He immediately noted that he was alone and very sticky from sweat. Well, that wasn't comfortable! So he dragged himself out of bed and headed towards the latrine where Lancelot was already bathing. Good idea. Without a second thought, Dryden stripped off his pyjama bottoms and walked into the communal shower and turned on the water stream, testing it with his hand. When Lancelot looked over at him, he nodded and gave him a bland, “Good morning.” 

 

Lancelot was in the middle of enjoying his first real shower since having entered their refuge when he heard Dryden enter the room and walk up right next to him. This was the first hot shower the Soviet had taken in _months_ , spending more time out in the fields than back at the base. Out there, on the front lines, you had to get quite creative if you wanted to avoid smelling like the corpses around you, and he knew of a few tricks that worked better than others. Naturally, nothing worked better than the soft, wonderful sensation of hot water running down your back. Lancelot gave the man a quick side glance before closing his eyes again, relishing as the hot streams hit his face, the steam surrounding them doing wonders for his sore body. 

He remained quiet for a while, pondering what his next move should be. As he saw it, the Soviet had three choices right now. One, to leave the shower right away, get dressed and never speak of the night’s events ever again. Though that meant he would have to trust that Dryden wouldn’t bring it up unless he did. And he honestly wasn't sure if Dryden would do that. His second option was to snap the Brit’s neck and throw his corpse out into the snow. No one would ever know. That move was the most logical one since it would also solve the issue of having to explain to his superiors why there was a British soldier alive and breathing inside their top secret base. 

There was also option number three... Lancelot glanced at the man again, stubbornly fixing his gaze on literally anything else _but_ the place it mostly wanted wander to. He ended up locking it at the man’s chest. Not as wide as his own, for obvious reasons, but still painfully attractive nonetheless. The Soviet cleared his throat. 

“I’m left-handed…” he muttered hesitantly. “My right arm isn’t as flexible as I’d like it to be… think you could help me scrub my back?” The words had left his mouth before he could stop them, and Lancelot could not believe that he’d actually said them out loud!

“I guess I have quite the skill, blowing up the same arm twice, huh?” he added, despite his attempts to just shut up and enjoy the shower without making a fool out of himself... again. 

 

As the warm cascades of water finished the process of waking Dryden up, he started to notice his surroundings in more detail. Namely, the condition of the man showering nearby. No longer covered in injuries both superficial and profound, he was now immaculate, save for the crater where his left arm had been. It might have astonished or terrified the Sergeant to note it, but he'd seen so much insanity in this war, Lancelot’s supernatural healing didn't phase him. It was either a product of his prosthesis or the cause of it and he couldn't be sure which. 

Dryden was also painfully aware of the tension in the Soviet, based on the way he kept stealing glances at him, and not in a thrilling, sexy way. No, he was clearly trying to determine what to do with his enemy roommate, now that he didn't need him anymore. If it came down to it, the Brit doubted he could take him in a fight, one-armed or no. Not now, after he'd witnessed how strong Lancelot truly was. So he was probably going to die here. There were worse things. At least he was warm and full.

So he was taken aback when Lancelot made his civil request and Dryden could find no cause to deny him. So he stood behind this gorgeous man and scrubbed his back without protest. “You clearly have a lot of luck,” Dryden offered. “I just can't tell which kind.” The Soviet’s back was clean and he stepped away, back into his own water stream. “I'd ask about how you healed up all your injuries but I don't think you'd tell me. Nor would you tell me what kind of technology can replace a man’s arm good as new. So I'll just ask if you're going to kill me and when. A bloke deserves to know.” 

 

The Soviet did not reply to Dryden’s question right away. Mainly because he did not yet have the answer to it. His brain kept telling him that this man had to die. He simply knew too much. It didn’t matter if Dryden didn’t care about the knowledge or didn’t even realise he had it. It was still there, inside of him. And Lancelot had been present at far too many interrogations to trust that the man wouldn’t break under the right pressure, even if he for some godforsaken reason decided not to tell his commanders about what he’d seen.

But Lancelot’s conscience stopped him from actually doing the deed. It would be so easy, to just walk over there and break his neck. It would be quick and painless in a warm and safe environment. A merciful death—a blessed death even—compared to the ones his fellow soldiers had met. But this man had saved his life, time and time again. The Sergeant had not asked for any of this to happen. He wasn’t even in the army by his own free will! Dryden was a civilian, a civilian who’d been dressed up in a uniform, handed a rifle and then thrown into the wolves' den. Lancelot sighed and rubbed his temples. He would be executed for this, surely.

The Lieutenant left his own shower and walked over to the Brit, not stopping until he was right behind the man. He hadn’t realised how much bigger than Dryden he actually was, both in length and width. They would probably be needing three of the smaller man to match his weight! Towering over him, Lancelot put his hand around Dryden’s throat and squeezed lightly, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes.

His plan had been to release Dryden instantly and assure him that he had nothing to worry about—that he was safe with him and that he would rather die than killing the man who’d saved his life—but Lancelot had not anticipated how empowered this particular position would make him feel… the sight of Dryden’s exposed neck, the feeling of his racing pulse under his palm… the rush was unbelievable! It made Lancelot tremble with desire. He squeezed Dryden’s throat a little harder, wishing his other arm was already repaired and functioning. Had it been, the Lieutenant would use it to completely restrain the man. He would lock his arms and slam him into the wall and then—

Dryden’s choking gurgle brought Lancelot back to reality. Realising what he’d almost done, Lancelot instantly released his grip around Dryden’s throat but remained in the same position, just behind the man, his warm fingers gently brushing over the Brit’s pulse point. “I’m not going to kill you, Sergeant,” Lancelot whispered hoarsely, barely recognising his own voice. “You have no reason to fear me.” 

 

 _Okay, I guess it’s going to happen now,_ Dryden thought with some bitterness as the Russian’s hand closed around his throat. _Serves me right for forcing the issue. I get to die naked in a shower._ He didn’t fight it, though. What would be the point? This huge specimen of a man would end him so quickly, whether he fought or not. There was no need to increase the amount of pain he felt first.

He watched the Soviet’s pale eyes glaze over as his fingers constricted and started to cut off airflow. Slow, then… He would do it slowly. Miserable bastard. Was this the face Lancelot made when he killed someone? So far away, like he was somewhere else entirely. Dryden didn’t have that luxury, being chained to the body that was slowly being suffocated. His eyes watered and he coughed and suddenly the hand around his neck went slack and the Brit stumbled forward, rubbing his neck and coughing.

Behind his back, he heard the faint words of the Soviet and whipped around in a rage. “I find believing you difficult,” he said in a raspy voice. “What was the point of that, then?” he said, flinging his hand from his throat where dark bruises were already starting to form. Throughout all of this, fear was not something he felt, not something he was capable of feeling anymore. So he advanced on the much larger man, shoving him hard on his good shoulder, a defiant act of indignation. “What, you needed to show me how helpless and weak I am? You needn’t bother! I’m fully aware.” His shoulders moved up and down with his heavy breaths, his chest trembled with agitation. “So it’s to be a surprise, then,” he grumbled. “Fine. Have it your way.” He started to walk past the staring man, muttering, “At least I won’t die a _total_ virgin.” 

 

“Wait—” the Lieutenant called out, turning around and stretching his arm out. He managed to get a hold of Dryden’s wrist and whipped him around to face him. “I—” he said, staring at him for a moment. _Ah, fuck it_ , Lancelot then thought, pressing his mouth against Dryden’s lips. Just like the previous night, the Soviet’s body was instantly fired up. He moaned, his hand wandering up Dryden’s back, pressing their bodies together. 

_Fire._

Lancelot was timber and Dryden was the match required to ignite the flame. He was under the mercy of the other man, unable to stop himself from pushing Dryden backwards until they both reached the shower wall. He slid his tongue inside Dryden’s mouth, letting it glide over Dryden’s like some kind of furious dance where they battled for domination.

As suddenly as the kiss had begun, Lancelot withdrew, almost as if someone had tied an invisible rope around his waist and yanked him backwards. He was standing several metres away from the dazed man in the showers, leaning against the counter behind him, his hand clutching the edge so hard his knuckles whitened. His cock—fully erect—was throbbing painfully. With his heart in his throat, Lancelot stared at Dryden, his mouth open and his chest heaving violently as he struggled to get his breath back under control.

“I’m…” he panted. “You…” he swallowed, fighting the urge to leap forward and continue his manhandling of the Sergeant. “I’m queer!” Not even _close_ to the words he’d been trying to say.  

_Fuck, I’m going to have a heart attack._

 

“Yeah… ah… I think I picked up on that,” Dryden gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was still pressed hard against the wall, as though the Soviet was still pinning him there, his blood still pulsing in his veins like a drum. His eyes were drawn to the Lieutenant’s lower body, specifically, his huge cock that was dark and pointing at the tiled ceiling. “Obviously, I am, too,” he added quietly.

He had no idea what was going on here. As Lancelot’s did, as soon as their mouths connected, his brain ceased to function. Otherwise, it might have objected when he parted his lips for the man who he was convinced would murder him. It might have complained when he jammed his tongue into the Soviet’s waiting mouth. It might have rebelled when he gripped the other man’s dripping back, digging his fingernails in as he succumbed to the passion inside.

But now Lancelot was several feet away and Dryden’s brain was starting to rumble back to life. “Do you ever do anything that makes sense?” he asked in exasperation. “If you’re trying to keep me off balance, you don’t need to try that hard. I already told you, I accept whatever is going to happen to me. I know I’m going to die soon, whether by your hands, or the snow, or some bullet from a soldier I’ll never see. I don’t care anymore, okay? As of this moment, I just want to know what the fuck you’re doing. Suspense is worse than anything.”

 

“I—I don’t _know_ what I’m doing!” Lancelot shrieked, flailing his arm in the air. He was pacing around now, back and forth, panting. His hand was shaking. He was pretty sure his heart would literally explode if they continued continued to do this without shouting out some kind of warning first. The Lieutenant stopped to look at Dryden once more, awkwardly and defeatedly running his fingers through his wet hair. Of course his gaze lingered over the Brit’s body, his beautiful face, his gorgeous torso… Lancelot’s hungry eyes inspected it the way a wolf eyed its prey. But when they reached Dryden’s groin, Lancelot instantly looked away, licking his lips.

“I don’t know,” he exhaled, staring down at his own feet. “Yesterday morning I woke up, never been kissed, and now…” he gestured at Dryden and took a deep breath. “I’m not going to fucking kill you, you stupid, motherfucking little—” he growled as he grabbed a towel and threw it at the man. Then he grabbed one for himself, too, covering up his body and putting more layers between them before they _both_ did something they’d regret later. He was still shivering. 

“Breakfast?”

 

“Y-yeah, that sounds good,” Dryden stammered, towel still against his chest where it landed. He was unable to move for a moment, still feeling like he was straddling some strange line between being Lancelot’s next victim or first sex partner. The Soviet was already leaving the shower area and the Brit didn’t know what to do other than shut off the water and towel off. Still mechanical in his actions, like he’d been conditioned to be. Shower, dry off, dress. Simple and repetitive. He picked his clothes from yesterday off the ground and was about to put them on, but the stale smell of sweat assailed his nostrils and he changed his mind.

Instead, he headed back to the bedroom where the extra clothes were stowed and found himself a new set, soft shirt and drawstring pants, wool socks. When he reentered the kitchen, Lancelot was already halfway to making a horrifying mess and he put his hands out and said, “Hey, why don’t I cook this time, huh? Take turns…”

He hadn’t really gone through the kitchen before and when the Soviet relented and went to sit somewhere, Dryden started going through the items he’d missed. Mostly because he couldn’t read anything, but he did find some basic baking ingredients and some packets with pictures of bread on them. “Yeast?” he asked, then held up the packet for Lancelot to read. “Is this yeast?” An affirmative answer and his face broke into a expression of joy. “Oh, this is wonderful! I’ll make bread! I haven’t had proper bread since before the Blitz. Just wait—it’ll take awhile, but it’s worth it!”

The Brit actually hummed to himself happily as he set out a few cans and asked Lancelot to tell him what they were. Then he put some beans on the stove and mixed in some more of the beef from yesterday. “Not a proper fry up, but still pretty good,” he mused to himself as he started mixing flour and water in a bowl, then added some salt and the yeast. He washed his hands and rolled up his sleeves to the elbows, starting to form the dough, then sprinkled more flour on the counter and began to knead it, feeling a little more human with each press of his hands.

 

After leaving the latrine, Lancelot went to put on the first best outfit in his size he could find. He wasn’t very picky in his choosing so it ended up being just the regular Soviet uniform trousers, thick socks and a plain white tank top. No shirts with sleeves until he’d fixed the little problem of having his left arm missing.

When the Sergeant had finished using Lancelot as his personal translator, the Soviet left the area for a couple of minutes. Once he returned, the entire kitchen was already filled with the tones of a very popular, American jazz band whose name Lancelot could not remember. It didn’t really matter, he was just happy to be rid of the constant buzzing coming from the machinery located in the bunker’s centre, keeping the place running. He noticed how Dryden’s entire front was now covered in flour, and chuckled at the small, white dot on the tip of the Brit’s nose.

“Look at you—cooking and cleaning!” he grinned, digging out another bottle of his country’s unofficial national beverage. He didn’t down half the bottle in one go as he’d done the day before, just simply took a couple of sips before settling down at a table with a perfect view of his enemy. “You know, if it wasn’t for your cock, you’d make a really handy wife one day!”

 

When the music started, Dryden smiled to himself, continually impressed with what this place was capable of. When the Soviet teased him, he scowled and his shoulders slumped, feeling mocked and somewhat emasculated. It wasn’t as if this were the first time he was basically called unmanly. But he refused to let Lancelot’s bullshit swagger ruin his mood! “If it weren’t for your mouth, you’d make a decent companion,” he countered, putting the dough in a greased pan and covering it with a wet cloth, leaving it to rise. “You don’t watch yourself, and I’ll eat this entire loaf myself.” He levelled a cooking spoon at the Soviet and said with narrowed eyes, “Don’t think I won’t!”

The beans and beef was now bubbling and he helped himself to a large, steaming bowl of it. “Serve yourself,” he barked as he went to the icebox to find something to drink that didn’t taste like an antiseptic. “I may be your wife, but I’m no waitress.”

 

“Aww come on!” Lancelot complained loudly, mainly because he was very comfortable where he was. “I only have one arm—I’m basically an invalid—I can’t carry everything I need in one trip!” The look he got from Dryden made him sigh, and he reluctantly pulled himself up from the chair to fetch his breakfast, purposely dropping a plate or two as well as a few cutleries as he 'tried' to balance his stuff with one arm. The Sergeant’s gritted teeth and visible internal scream was definitely worth the time he’d have to spend cleaning everything up later. “Whoops,” the Soviet shrugged innocently. “Told you so.”

Lancelot then sat down and finished his plate with record speed. “Good stuff, Sergeant. You know your shit,” he praised, choked back a burp.

After absentmindedly playing with his fork for a little while, the Lieutenant looked up. “Hey, about the stuff I did in the shower, I’m sorry for—” _Sorry for what?_ How did you apologise to someone for almost choking them to death and directly afterwards telling them you’d never do such a thing? He snorted and shook his head before giving the man a warm smile. “I’m not going to kill you, Dryden.”

 

Could they not go five minutes without Lancelot saying something unbearably awkward? This was why Dryden didn’t talk very much. At least if he kept his mouth shut, he’d keep his gaffes down to a minimum. His dark eyes rose to the Lieutenant, trying so very hard to figure out where this man’s head was at. He was so much easier to deal with when he was injured and delirious!

“For a man without the intention of killing me, you sure bring it up a lot,” he remarked as he put his plate aside. Something inside him was uneasy, and he wasn’t sure what, only that it had everything to do with the man opposite him. “Which part are you apologising for?” he asked a bit more aggressively than normal. “Half choking me to death or kissing me after? You honestly need to make up your mind. Am I your enemy or your…” He couldn’t say the word, mostly because he wasn’t even sure which one it was. “...victim?” he finally added, then looked down at his plate, ashamed and not understanding it.

 

The Lieutenant dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know,” he said with a sigh, just like he’d done in the latrine. “I honestly do not know! I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know if you just happened to come across me or if you’re purposely trying to get inside my head. I don’t know if anything you’ve told me about yourself is true and I don’t know why I keep—”

Lancelot cut himself off before he started yelling again and things got even more awkward. He really, really wanted to believe that everything Dryden had said so far was true and that all things that had happened after their first encounter in the alley was just one huge, random coincidence after the other.

“Look, I’ve been raised with the constant reminder that everyone— _everyone_ —around me is a possible threat. I’ve been fighting this war far longer than I have been an official soldier of the army and I—” he shook his head. Whatever he said now would make him come off as either paranoid or hostile, and neither of those would help with the already strained tension in the air. 

“I guess that you, as long as you’re stuck down here with me, would be qualified to fit into the group of people I like to call my _comrades?”_ Lancelot eventually said with a smile. “Is that an acceptable title for you, Sergeant Dryden Lore?” 

 

 _And when I'm not with you?_ Dryden wondered but had the sense this time not to voice. Nothing was promised to him, and nothing ever was. He'd have to accept this as a ceasefire and deal with whatever happens later, later. What else could he do?

“You didn't like me calling you comrade when we met, remember?” he asked with a rather saucy smirk. Then he laughed at the strangeness of it all. From guns in faces to kissing to sharing a bed to having a civilized breakfast. Things moved quickly in wartime.

“Yeah I'll take it, comrade,” he said as he stood and stretched. “Let me get this for you,” he said as he picked up their plates and went to go wash them. _Now you're really a housewife,_ he chided himself. Before washing anything, he tossed the plates in the sink and started filling it with water. Then he put the bread in the oven. In half an hour, it would be beautiful. 

 

 _Well, you hadn’t made me cum in my pants with nothing but a kiss back then_ , Lancelot thought, blushing at the vulgar way he phrased that sentence even though it was only in his head. He returned Dryden’s smirk with a dashing one of his own and grinned teasingly as the Sergeant picked up the dishes. He didn’t dare comment on it in fear of starting another bicker, but they both knew what he was thinking. 

 _Wife_ , he taunted.

It didn’t feel right through, to just sit there and watch Dryden do all the work, not after this strange... arrangement? Deal? Whatever the fuck this thing between them was. Besides, Lancelot had never been good at letting other people do things for him—not even when he was physically injured—and he wasn’t even _that_ anymore! His body was all healed up now, the only thing missing was that damn robotic arm. He wasn’t even in any pain at all!

The Soldier got up from his seat and walked over to the sink, picking up the things he’d dropped earlier on his way there. He placed himself next to the Brit and grabbed a kitchen towel, taking the clean dish out of Dryden’s hand and putting it down on the counter where he begun to dry it. It was tricky, learning how to handle normal, everyday things with only one hand, especially since that hand wasn’t even his dominant one. Everything was out of balance and wrong. He ended up dropping one of the plates, the fragile porcelain breaking into several smaller pieces. A long series of Russian curses flew out of his mouth and in a sudden flash of rage and embarrassment, he kicked one of the cabinet doors under the sink as hard as he could.

Thankfully, Dryden didn’t comment on it. Lancelot glanced at him, very grateful that he somehow managed to let the proud Soviet keep some of his dignity. With a frustrated sigh, Lancelot crouched, picking up the pieces of the broken plate one by one.

“Are you aware that you have a spot of flour on your nose…?” he asked after a while, breaking the silence. “It’s been there for about an hour now. I would’ve mentioned it earlier but I… well, it sort made you look a little endearing,” he smiled bashfully, now sitting on top of the counter feeling utterly useless, shamefully admitting his defeat in the battle of him versus the dishes.

 

Dryden blinked in surprise when the Soviet took a place next to him, but otherwise showed no sign of what he was feeling. Considering how much Lancelot seemed to feel entitled to be waited on before, it was unexpected that he should assist in cleaning without even being asked. It seemed like talking would spoil the moment, so Dryden didn’t speak at all, but silently handed over clean dishes to the man standing beside him as though this were their nightly routine.

The sound of a plate cracking on the floor made him jump, not comfortable with loud noises like that for some time. Another byproduct of being on the front for too long. Once he was calm again, he started rummaging through a tall closet for a broom for the smaller bits of broken ceramic that would likely litter the floor. And they were in socks. Not a great combination. “I’ll handle this part,” he said softly, not feeling the need to point out that sweeping was a two-hand job.

Lancelot looked up and informed him of some flour on his nose and he laughed and wiped it away with the back of his arm. “Right. Messy cook. My mum always said I got as much on myself as in the bowl,” he said amiably. He ventured to near the Soviet and asked softly, “Did I get it all?”

 

Suddenly Dryden was all up in Lancelot’s personal space—again—but for some reason, the Soviet didn’t flinch or jump back this time. His heart was still pounding as loud and fast as a war drum though, the proximity of the other man instantly setting fire to Lancelot’s body without even touching him.

“I don’t know,” Lancelot said, biting his lip nervously as he reached out his hand to grab the collar of Dryden’s shirt. He tugged on it, forcing the man to take another step forward. “I’ll have to inspect the area a little more thoroughly before I can deliver a report.”

Dryden chuckled, seemingly as nervous as Lancelot felt, and the Soviet placed his hand on the Brit’s cheek, gently stroking the soft skin. His legs, already spread pretty wide, were suddenly wrapped around Dryden’s waist, trapping him there. Lancelot leaned towards him, their lips meeting in a short and tentative peck, neither of them knowing where the other stood in this. Both of them withdrew, looking into each other's eyes. Lancelot was holding his breath. Then suddenly, without any warning at all, the passion between them exploded once more, their mouths locking together in a violent, greedy kiss making them both moan. Hands wandered, shirts fell to the floor. Without really knowing how, Lancelot found himself standing on the floor with Dryden now sitting on the counter opposite the sink, his hand already slipped inside the Sergeant’s trousers, rubbing his growing bulge with an increasing speed.

 

This time, Dryden let Lancelot initiate their kiss, wanting to see if the Soviet had the guts or if his inner war was still waging on. He was pleasantly surprised to find himself on the receiving end of a warm, lingering kiss, the Lieutenant's body wrapped around his own in a way that made his pulse race. It was brief, but significant, and for the first time, they looked directly at each other afterwards, an unspoken confirmation that yes, they both wanted this.

A moment passed that stretched out into eternity, just on the cusp of acting on the shared desire they both felt raging. Then suddenly, Dryden threw himself into the Russian’s arms and whatever tentative sweetness existed before was blasted away. The hunger was back, deep and frightening, yet not enough to do anything but pursue it. Lancelot’s shirt was such a flimsy thing, it was so easy to yank it over his head and touch his body. His own was swiftly discarded and he heard the Soviet’s feet hit the floor more than he felt them, and he was abruptly hoisted up and spun around to sit on the counter as Lancelot had been seconds ago. He didn’t understand why he was placed here but didn’t care as long as the Soviet continued to conquer his mouth. When he felt Lancelot’s hand breach his pyjama pants, Dryden gasped and clutched him hard, kissing his neck instead of his lips now. Each stroke of the Russian’s hand sent a jolt of lust through his body and awakened every part of him. He moaned encouragement, feeling dizzy from arousal, and reaching for Lancelot to touch him in the same way.

 

Lancelot could not think. Every action he did was based on pure instinct—from the sloppy kiss to the rubbing of Dryden’s cock. The man’s gasps and moans fuelled the Soldier, and it urged him to go faster. That is, until Dryden’s hands began to tug on his own pants... 

 _Oh my god,_  Lancelot thought, his brain exploding. Dryden's fingers were quick and eager, and soon one of his hands was wrapped around the Lieutenant’s throbbing cock. _Oh. My. God._ Lancelot’s body jerked forward as the violent rush of pleasure made him cry out in shock. And he’d thought that the feeling of Dryden’s mouth against his neck was the most intense sensation he’d ever live to experience!

Lancelot was gasping now, thrusting his hips in the same rhythm as Dryden’s jerking, already feeling an orgasm building up and not able to do a fucking thing to postpone it. He buried his tongue in Dryden’s mouth and continued to move his hand up and down, stroking Dryden’s cock faster and faster until the Brit was making the same kind of noises he was. Lancelot had never been more turned on in his entire life.

“Fuckin' hell, D, I—” the Soviet cried as his body suddenly lurched, Dryden’s hand now covered in a thick layer of cum. _Well, at least I lasted more than ten seconds this time,_ Lancelot thought sheepishly, panting heavily as his face slowly took the colour of a ripe tomato.

 

Things were moving really fucking fast. But, honestly, Dryden had no idea what speed was normal. The couples he knew had barely touched hands before getting married. And the braggarts he met around the docks in London and some of the other soldiers made it seem like minutes between meeting a girl and getting her on her back. So he and Lancelot were somewhere in between, apparently, though much closer to the big fish stories boys his age told. Maybe it was because they were two young, and apparently very horny men.

That, and there were literally no external factors keeping them apart right now. No one’s eyes to avoid or other places they had to be. They were alone with nothing to do except be with each other. This was bound to happen.

Dryden was feverish with need, thrusting his hand below Lancelot’s waistband and seizing his member, absently noting he wasn't circumcised and wondering if that made a difference. Apparently not as the Soviet was groaning in ecstasy within seconds, suddenly mirroring the Brit’s actions as they stroked each other’s cocks frenetically, as though racing to see who could get off first.

Lancelot won of course, his dick exploding in Dryden’s hand, so fast it took a moment for the Sergeant to realise what had happened. He pulled his hand out and gazed at Lancelot, whose hand was still tightly wound around his cock but not moving right now. Dryden leaned forward to start kissing him again, closing his hand over the Russian’s to encourage him to keep stroking.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Lancelot mumbled, his face burning, not really sure why or even what he was apologising for. It’s not like he’d ruined anything for the man currently locked to his mouth, had he? They were two men. _Two cocks and no cunt._ How could they possibly fuck one another? Somewhere in the back of his head, Lancelot knew exactly how it was done and what one of them would have to allow the other to do. The thought of it made his flushed face turn an even deeper shade of red than it already was. He wanted it though. _Fuck,_ he wanted to experience and explore every single one of his forbidden fantasies with this man.

Dryden’s bold actions and encouragements quickly dragged Lancelot out of his thoughts and the Soviet realised that his partner in crime had not yet climaxed—mainly because Lancelot had slowed down and stopped his furious rubbing the moment his own cock had violently erupted in the other man’s hand. _Oh shit._ _Right._ He’d heard his sisters complain about selfish lovers not caring about anything but their own pleasure, and now here he was, turning into exactly that... not that he considered Dryden to be a woman in any way, he just… the thought of him being a bad lover bothered him. Shame turned to guilt. He let out something between a nervous chuckle and a grunt, determined to not end this before Dryden had experienced the same kind of pleasure that had just surged through his own body.

His hand, never having left the soldier’s hardened bulge, slowly began to move again, and with a nervousness bordering to fear—ridiculous, he knew—the Soviet swallowed and re-arranged himself, plunging his hand into the man’s underwear rather than just his trousers. Flesh against flesh. It felt… _odd_ , having another person’s cock in his hand. It was so intimate. The Lieutenant liked it. A lot. 

The Brit was circumcised, Lancelot noted, a strangely powerful sensation of relief rushing over him, making his shoulders feel a hundred times lighter. Maybe, _maybe,_ this man was nothing more or less than what he’d told Lancelot he were. No lies, no games—just an ordinary soldier being everything but ordinary. The Lieutenant smiled wider than he’d done in a very long time, and basically attacked Dryden’s lips with his own as he wrapped his hand a little tighter around the soldier’s engorged cock, releasing it from its prison in his briefs. The sounds coming from the Sergeant re-ignited the fire in Lancelot, and he deepened the kiss. He accidentally bit the man a little harder than intended, piercing the skin of his bottom lip, while simultaneously jerking him off with a newly found passion.

His half-flaccid cock twitched and suddenly sprung back to life, making Lancelot light-headed and dizzy as seemingly all the blood in his body rushed towards his lower regions. What little sense of reason and self-control he’d had left abandoned him, and Lancelot growled, attacking Dryden’s bruised neck with his mouth, kissing, sucking and biting alternately.

“Dryden…” the Soviet whispered against the soft skin, relishing in the way the smaller man thrust his cock into his hand, the sounds he made and the way he made Lancelot feel while doing it. “ _Dryden..._ ” he repeated hoarsely, repeatedly running his hand up and down the Brit’s engorged, beautiful shaft.

 

The amount of hesitation Lancelot expressed made Dryden increasingly nervous. Was this going to be a one-way thing? _Again?_ He understood the social stigma they were both dealing with, but they weren't exactly out in society. This was just a brief interlude in the midst of a war where they found a small, quiet space to just be themselves. How often did men like them get this sort of opportunity? He wasn't about to take it for granted. In a short time, they would have to rejoin the world, and God forgive him for wanting one good memory from all this. 

Dryden was still sitting on the counter, body trapped by Lancelot’s, still very much at his mercy. When the Soviet actually grabbed his cock, Dryden yelped in surprise and threw his arms around his neck. Their mouths did battle, this time the Brit giving as good as he got, tasting blood but unsure whose it was. Lancelot pumped his fist ever faster and soon the Sergeant was lost in the building ecstasy. It felt so different when someone else was touching him, a heady loss of control that made him feel weightless. Soon his desperate cries filled the room as Lancelot started to lick and kiss his neck and suddenly his body seized up. He garbled out some sort of notification and then his cock lurched in the Soviet’s hand, covering it with his thick cum.

He was gasping now, sweat dripping down his forehead and chest, so tired. But peaceful, happy bordering on euphoric. He took Lancelot’s face in both his hands and smiled rather drunkenly at him. Humming with pleasure, Dryden tilted his chin and gently kissed the Soviet’s lips.

 

As Dryden’s moans grew louder, Lancelot withdrew his mouth, wanting to see the man’s face and the expressions it made as _his_ hand brought him closer and closer to ecstasy. He’d never seen a person—man or woman—climax before. He’d heard it, of course. Sharing a tent with ten other men night after night made it impossible not to overhear that sort of thing. People had needs.

Getting jerked off by a man and then cumming in his hand had been the closest thing to euphoria that Lancelot had ever felt, but this… seeing Dryden sit there with his eyes closed, giving in to this very taboo and illegal desire, desperately pursuing his own pleasure… Lancelot had never felt more powerful. More _alive._ It was as if he’d finally found his true purpose for existing. He’d been born to do this—to make this man feel things he’d never thought possible.

Trapped between the cabinets and Lancelot’s groin, lost in the very same, overwhelming lust Lancelot had felt just a moment ago, Dryden was completely at his mercy, and the Lieutenant _loved_ it. Apparently, pleasuring another man— _this man_ —had awoken some kind of perverted and twisted thirst for control Lancelot hadn’t even known he possessed. His mind was racing. The things he could do to Dryden if he only had the guts to let go of his inner fears and just grab the buffet so beautifully spread out for him… 

Dryden yelped out a muffled cry and ejaculated in the Soviet’s hand, his arms wrapped around his wide shoulders, his fingers digging into his back. Lancelot was panting as heavily as Dryden were, and cooed joyfully as the Brit took his face, kissing him with such a tender it made him blush. The Lieutenant wiped his hand of off the small towel next to Dryden, and mirrored the soldier’s movement, cupping his face gently.

Lancelot laughed shyly, letting their foreheads rest against each other as their breaths slowly returned to normal. He took one of Dryden’s hands and placed it on his chest, his own hand on top of it, squeezing it lightly, his heart thundering in his ears. “You’re so fucking gay,” the Lieutenant then said with a smirk, stealing a quick kiss and smiling against Dryden’s lips. “It’s disgusting. I should beat you up.”

 

“Yeah, I've heard that half my life, mate,” Dryden replied with a laugh. “Wasn't really true until I met you though.” His hand was now on Lancelot’s chest, just over his racing heart and he wondered how he could feel so much for someone in so short a time. Not just someone—the enemy. But what was that anyway? Lancelot was his enemy because they came from two nations whose leaders decided they should war. The Soviet had never done him harm personally, so why should they be at odds? It made no sense, so he discarded the notion as useless and absurd.

Lancelot made some joke about beating him up, and the Brit leaned back a little, pulling on his bottom lip where the cut stung. “Feels like you kind of already did,” he noted with a chagrined smile.

They stayed there for a moment, looking at each other, unsure of what to say. As usual, Dryden broke the ice. “So what happens now?”

 

Lancelot wasn’t sure why, only that it pleased him greatly to know that he was Dryden’s first just as much as Dryden was his. That no one but _he_ had kissed those lips and… his heart skipped a beat as he remembered the sounds he’d made Dryden do, and how he’d caused them to happen. Yes. He was very pleased to be Dryden’s only one.

He apologised halfheartedly for the bite, feeling a little guilty having caused him pain. He didn't regret unhinging his passion like that though. He’d found it extremely arousing and would definitely want to do it again. If Dryden would let him...

“Now,” the Lieutenant smiled, wiping most of the spunk on Dryden’s cock away and then putting it back into his briefs, embedding it with a gentle tenderness, as if it was a valuable, fragile possession of his. “I suggest we eat," he took a step backwards, tucking his own cock away, “drink, party and enjoy this shithole for as long as we can,” he grabbed the Sergeant’s hand, pulling him down from the counter with such a strength Dryden would’ve fallen over and crashed into the floor, had Lancelot not been there to catch him. Instead, the smaller man was thrown into the Soviet’s chest and then kissed hard. “Because fuck knows how long we have before we’re back in the fucking war, ordered to kill each other or die trying.”

 

“Right, well, you’ll be glad to know that I don’t actually kill people,” Dryden said as he reassembled himself and tried to arrange his clothes so he didn’t look like he’d just gotten mauled by a bear. Before he could say anything else, the smell of bread hit his nose like a freight train and he shouted, “Oh, the bread! I almost forgot!”

He rushed to the oven and used two towels to take the pan out, wiping his brow in relief as it appeared to have missed burning. “I’d have kicked myself if I ruined this,” he said softly, laying a towel out on the counter and flipping the pan over to release the doughy goodness inside. It came out clean, landing on the towel and revealing its caramel brown crust. “Let it sit a few minutes and it’ll be ready. Secret family recipe,” he added, with a wink. Then he started going through the ice box again, unable to read any of the labels, so he started opening lids to investigate. “I wonder if they have jam or butter here.”

 

Lancelot helped himself to another bottle of liquor and then fell back, leaning against a counter as he watched Dryden coo and fawn over that damn piece of bread as if it was the crown jewels of England! He caught himself smiling widely, like a person who’d just found something very dear to them they thought they’d lost.

“Bullshit!” the Russian called out as the soldier claimed to be a non-killer. “You’ve been in the army for _two_ years. The whole point of this stupid war is to shoot everyone you see. If you haven’t done that, what the hell _have_ you been doing?” he asked, walking up to the man. “Playing house-wife to your division, perhaps?” he teased, stopping right behind Dryden and nuzzling his neck. Now when the invisible barrier keeping him from touching the Brit had been demolished, Lancelot found it very hard to keep his hands away from him. “Baking bread?”

The Russian was only teasing, of course. He was not trying to mock or humiliate Dryden in any way. He just found it very hard to believe that a soldier—any soldier—could be a part of this war without getting blood on their hands, whether they wanted to do it, or not.

He gently smacked one of Dryden’s hands as he opened the lid of yet another jar. “Would you stop breaking every single seal of these things! The expiration date is only valid as long as the packages are unopened!” he scolded. “You’re gonna spoil everything!” He proceeded to grab a small block in foil and handing it over to the man. “масло,” he said, showing Dryden the letters. “Butter.”

 

“Then I guess we’d better eat it all before we go,” Dryden replied with a smirk. He honestly hadn’t given thought to food spoiling, expecting his time down here would be so brief, nothing would have the chance to expire. And if a bunch of Soviets came by later and whined about their milk being sour, well, it was hard to sum up much sympathy.

While Lancelot fussed over what was unsealed and what wasn’t, Dryden found a long serrated knife and started slicing the bread into thick pieces. It had a nice, crunchy crust and was moist and spongy on the inside. “Perfect,” he crooned. The Brit stole a morsel and ate it unflavoured, just to get the full taste. He smiled and offered a small piece to Lancelot, placing it on his tongue when the Russian opened his mouth. “If I could get some black tea with honey, I think I’d be in English heaven,” he said with a sigh.

 

Look at them… bickering and teasing and flirting like they’d known each others for years instead of just a couple of days! If someone saw them, they might mistake the two for an old married couple even though they didn’t know the slightest thing about one another apart from name and military rank. _Well, that's about to change,_ Lancelot thought, opening his mouth as Dryden offered him a second piece of his home baked bread. The Lieutenant moaned in delight. It tasted heavenly! 

Lancelot soon decided that their little British breakfast time, which had been stretched to last for hours due to their little pause for… physical examination in the middle, was over. It was his turn now, to show them how they killed time in Russia. “Well, I’m afraid I cannot offer you any tea today, but what I do have is vodka and more vodka,” the Soviet winked.

He grabbed two bottles of the strong booze along with two shot glasses, stuffing everything down his pants since he couldn’t carry both that and the other ingredient at the same time. After giving Dryden a saucy grin, Lancelot then bent over, picked Dryden up by his legs, and threw the man over his right shoulder. “Let's get you drunk!” he cheered, heading towards the common room. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Once Dryden got over his disgust at the taste of the clear alcohol, he was able to imbibe it rather freely. They took their sweet time drinking shots while talking of their childhoods and families and anything else they could think of. The conversation flowed easily, no doubt lubricated by the vodka itself, and the Brit was astonished at how well he and the Soviet got along. They should have been diametrically and philosophically opposed, but they were just people under the uniforms and dogma. People who liked each other very much. 

At some point, Dryden had gotten a bit sleepy and instead of sitting next to Lancelot on the long sofa, he laid down and rested his head on the other man’s thigh. They were laughing about some silly story one of them told the other and once the laughter died down, Dryden turned to his back and looked up at the Lieutenant with stars in his eyes. “Before you asked me to tell you something no one ever knew about me,” he said, slurring a bit. “You never told me anything like that. Go on.” 

 

Lancelot had long since abandoned his bottle, leaving it to its own fate on a low, wooden table in favour for the feeling off Dryden’s hair under his touch. His large, strong hand—trained to break bones, throw grenades and snap necks—was now buried deeply in the long, dark waves, gently twirling the silky soft strands around his fingers. Absentmindedly, Lancelot couldn’t help but wonder how Dryden had managed to keep his hair so soft even though he’d been stationed at the front lines. _Maybe it’s the mud,_ he thought, because he just realised that his own hair, too, was equally smooth. _Either that or all the blood._

“Sure I did,” the Soviet replied softly. “Told you I'm queer, didn’t I? A well preserved secret I’ve shared with absolutely no one before meeting you.” Dryden grunted something about that not counting since it turned out that both of them were queer, and Lancelot laughed, trying to come up with another answer. “Something no one else knows about me, huh?” he pondered. “Well, I guess that you’ve already figured out I’m pretty hard to kill,” he smirked mischievously. “Wanna know why?”

Before Dryden could reply, Lancelot placed one finger on the Brit’s mouth, hushing him. He bent down and pressed his lips against Dryden’s, stealing a deep, passionate kiss from the man. As he pulled back, the Soviet stopped at Dryden’s ear, giving the lobe a gentle bite. “I’m a Superhero, Sergeant,” he whispered, his voice stuck in a tone between jest and earnest. “Or Villain, I guess, depending on what side you’re on. I'm a Supervillain—I even have my own code-name!” 

 

Dryden was still in a bubbly drunkenness, interrupted briefly by the heated kiss he received. But when Lancelot claimed to be a superhero, the Brit began to giggle again. “Like Superman?” he asked, too inebriated to hear the seriousness in the Soviet’s words. He assumed this was like the other silly things the other man said—teasing him, joking around. He liked his sense of humor. 

“That’s right, you have a metal arm,” Dryden answered himself. “At least, you have most of one right now. Is that your superpower? Does it have attachments like a Swiss Army knife? I bet you open cans in no time!” He was laughing again, the most carefree he’d felt since before the war. “What’s your code name?” he finally asked, after getting his giggles under control. “Something Arthurian, like your name, right? Excalibur?” 

 

Dryden giggled at his revealing, not taking it serious at all, of course, and Lancelot completely understood why. Had it been the other way around, he’d react the same way. He found himself joining in the laughter, Dryden’s giggles too endearing and contagious to ignore. The sound sent a storm of butterflies down Lancelot’s stomach and he hummed in delight as the unusual feeling spread through his body, making him feel warm and strangely joyful.  

“Yes, like Superman,” Lancelot replied sincerely, “though instead of outer space, my origin story took place in an underground lab. And instead of saving people, my existence is to wipe them out…” his lower lip almost trembled as he said the last few words, and he sighed, forcing any glum emotion away. This was supposed to be _happy_ times. They were far, far away from the battles, only the two of them, isolated in this sanctuary filled with food, warmth and captivating company. The bitterness could wait until they were actually back in the real world. 

So Lancelot laughed once more and buried everything threatening to ruin this fantastic atmosphere they had going on. “No, nothing Arthurian—though the origins of _that_ is also a great story, I tell you—but no. This time it wasn’t my mother’s, but my sister’s turn to pick a name—so she did. The War Machine, that’s what they call me,” he grimaced. “I know, I know—who the _hell_ lets a six year old name a multi-million dollar project? My idiotic father, that’s who!” Lancelot groaned, slowly toppling over without even realising it. A few moments later he found himself lying on his side, rather uncomfortable, with his head resting on Dryden’s lower abdomen. It was warm and soft though, so he decided to stay there. It made him feel safe. 

“I am so sick of killing people, Dryden,” he mumbled with a sigh, absentmindedly tracing a finger over the Brit’s stomach. “Can’t it just be you and me for the rest of our lives? I think I’d like that very much.” 

 

“War Machine?” Dryden echoed, feeling a distant stirring of memory. He'd heard that name before, hadn't he? Well, it didn't matter right now. They weren't soldiers in here, after all. Just two men with time to kill. “Is that because you're made up of so much metal? I should take a look at that arm again, actually,” he added, already veering off topic. “Before I was a scout, I was a mechanic. Had me fixing damn near anything!” 

Lancelot continued his story and the Brit was oddly charmed by it. “I didn't know you had a younger sister too. Mine is a year behind me so we were— _are_ —very close. What's she like?” 

But the Soviet didn't seem to hear him and instead nestled beside him on the sofa, resting on his body. Dryden felt warmth billow out from where he traced his fingers on his stomach, and his pyjama bottoms felt noticeably tighter. He reached down to stroke the Soviet’s face and said softly, “Hey, wouldn't we be more comfortable on a bed?” 

 

“Not _too_ close, I hope?” Lancelot jested, kissing a point on Dryden’s stomach just beneath his navel. The slightly hitched breath it resulted in made the Soviet grin, though mischievous as he was, he decided he had yet to notice the bulge growing so very closely to his face. 

“ _Sisters_ ,” he corrected the man, “brothers, cousins—the extent of the Volkov dynasty is apparently endless. I’m not even exaggerating this time—I have _fourteen_ siblings. You can name any character from the Arthurian legend, and I swear to God I have a relative being his or hers namesake!” 

He giggled at the suggestive meaning behind Dryden’s words, but instead of actually getting up and carry both of them all the way back to the sleeping hall, the Soviet continued to ramble on and on about his younger siblings, childhood pets and other seemingly irrelevant topics, all while slowly stroking the man’s body. Caressing it ever so gently, relishing in Dryden’s random shivers and gasps.

Soon, Lancelot had slipped his arm inside the soldier’s trousers, tickling the soft skin of his pubic area. To be honest, the Soviet had no idea what he was doing. He had absolutely no experience with this sort of thing. So he just did what felt natural to him, trusting his instincts and hoping that this was as exciting for Dryden as it was for him. Judging by the rock hard boner his fingers accidentally brushed against, Lancelot assumed he was doing something right, anyway.

“...at the end of the dance, the girl was basically grinding against me, and that’s when I realised my attraction for guys was not just some kind of temporary teenage curiosity—I was one hundred percent pure faggot,” Lancelot chuckled a few minutes later, brushing his fingers along Dryden’s shaft once more. “What about you, Sergeant?” he asked, flashing the man an innocent smile. “Do you like dancing?” 

 

“Fourteen siblings?” Dryden asked incredulously. “I bet you can’t even remember all their names! Go on, tell me their names—in order.” What followed were long, meandering tales about Lancelot’s family, but the Soviet’s words grew evermore distant in the Brit’s mind as his body was slowly tantalised by Lancelot’s phantom touches. At first, he thought the Russian was teasing him unconsciously, but when a hand slipped into his pyjama bottoms, Dryden rightly guessed that this was all intentional. 

At a certain point, Lancelot was actively touching his cock, making the Brit tremble in response. He was too shy to mention it, especially since Lancelot was the one doing it and expressly not talking about it. Dryden licked his lips and attempted to answer the other man’s question. “I haven’t done much dancing,” he admitted. He could see how women would throw themselves at a gorgeous man like Lancelot. It was just an experience he hadn’t shared. “I mean, what girl would want to take a spin on the dancefloor with a bloke like me?” 

 

Dryden suddenly looked so sad that Lancelot’s heart was literally aching for him. His eyes almost watered up with compassion and sympathy. Had he had both his arms, the Soviet would have jumped out of the sofa right there and then, pulled Dryden up and then pressed the man against his body, telling him just how foolish the girls were, how much they were missing out on for turning him down. How dared they—those superficial _skanks_ —how dared they hurt this beautiful angel! Once again, Lancelot cursed the lack of his left arm. As soon as he had sobered up, he swore to himself to start the project of repairing it. Before they left this place, Dryden would get his dance, and hopefully he'd love it as much as Lancelot knew _he_ would. But for now, all the Soviet could offer was comfort and distraction. 

“Those girls have no idea what they lost by turning you down…” Lancelot whispered quietly, his fingers giving the Brit’s cock a little more attention. He wanted to kiss him, to show him how much he meant his words, to show Dryden that he _was_ important. He abandoned that idea pretty fast however, because he'd finally managed to get himself comfortable—not an easy feat, since the sofa was rather thin and there were two of them—and he didn’t want to abandon this new, insanely thrilling game of theirs. 

So he shifted, bent down and gave Dryden’s stomach a gentle kiss, right on top of his happy tail, his mouth just millimetres away from the tip of the Sergeant’s hard, throbbing cock. Lancelot had never even dared to _imagine_ that his face would ever be this close to a dick. And yet here he was… here they both were. He glanced at the majestic thing, tempted—so tempted—to just… the Soviet gulped and pulled his head back a little. He gave the area around it several small kisses, anxiously listening to Dryden’s response. Was this something the Sergeant wanted? 

 

Dryden could feel the emotion roiling off Lancelot, like waves of anger. He honestly hadn’t made the comment to draw such a response, or even pity. He’d thought it would have been obvious that the opposite sex would avoid him, for he was hardly the masculine ideal. He started threading his fingers in Lancelot’s hair and replied, “They lost an incompetent dance partner who didn’t want to be with them anyway. It’s not like I’m sorry about it. I think we both know that I’d be useless with a girl. They saved me some trouble, really. I only ever asked because my mates were doing the same and it would have looked… odd if I didn’t try my luck as well.”

Lancelot’s mouth had been doing some… interesting exploring over the last few minutes and each time his lips met with the Brit’s lower abdomen, he felt his cock jerk in response. It was a game they were playing, then. How close the Soviet would get his mouth to the Sergeant’s member before… what? Dryden told him to stop? Like there was a chance that would happen! “That… uh… feels very nice,” he said hoarsely, still stroking the Soviet’s long hair. 

 

“I’ll teach you,” the Soviet promised between his kisses, his heart thundering now when he was absolutely sure that Dryden liked it. _More_ than liked it, judging by the sound of his voice. “I’ll teach you how to dance beautifully. You’ll be the centre of everyone’s attention at the next ball!” 

Lancelot’s wandering hand had already managed to pull down Dryden’s trousers and underwear enough to expose his hardened shaft, and was now busy massaging the beautiful creation in a painfully slow pace. Dryden’s chokes and gulps were like music to the other man’s ears, and the Soviet quickly decided that this was the best game he’d ever invented, even though the horrifically thick sexual tension in the room made his nerves jump. 

“You like this…?” he asked in a raspy voice, kissing the spot where the man's happy trail and pubes fused. He could feel Dryden tremble and took that as an affirmative 'yes', gradually moving his lips further down until his reached the base of the soldier’s cock. _Now what?_ he wondered briefly, the hand holding Dryden’s shaft trembling with nervosity. He was almost tempted to call this off and end it. Not because he wanted to stop now though. He just had absolutely fucking no idea how to do this properly! The Soviet had heard stories of course, of whores and other loose girls taking their lover’s members in their mouths. But knowing the size—and width—of Dryden’s cock compared to his own mouth, Lancelot suddenly found himself in a pretty difficult dilemma. _How the fuck_ would that thing fit inside his mouth without him choking on it? 

The Soviet gulped and decided to simply improvise. Worst case scenario, he’d get to watch Dryden climax while jerking him off instead. Not as exciting as this experiment, but definitely something he’d sincerely enjoyed the last time he’d done it. So after moistening his lips , Lancelot, a little fumblingly, licked the base of Dryden's cock, slowly moving his tongue all the way up to the tip, tasting the thing and trying to figure out how to make this as pleasurable as possible for his lover. 

 

Dryden wasn’t exactly sure when his cock had been freed from his trousers, for he’d been too dazzled by the hot breath of the Soviet against his sensitive skin. But now Lancelot was slowly stroking him, making him squirm and moan plaintively, growing more aroused by the second. “Yesssss…” he practically hissed when asked if he liked the attention he was getting. Of course he was! How could he not like getting pleasured by the most gorgeous man he’d ever met? It was like a dream… 

A sharp intake of breath followed when he felt the hot, wet tongue of the Russian run up his smooth shaft and the hand in Lancelot’s hair suddenly made a fist. “Hnng… Lancelot,” he moaned. He squeezed his eyes shut, still reeling from the sensation and he gasped loudly when the Soviet’s lips grazed his belled tip. “Fuck…” he breathed. Heart pounding, breathing erratic, he was losing control. All he wanted was to feel the Soviet’s mouth all over his needy cock. “Keep… doing that,” he pleaded. “Just… whatever you want… I love the way your mouth feels.” 

 

 _This is amazing,_ Lancelot quickly decided, his nervousness fading away the louder Dryden's pleasured moans grew. And as the Brit’s lust-drenched voice begged him to continue, the Soviet felt bolder and more confident than he had ever done in his entire life. Gradually, his hesitation and restraints crumbled, and soon Lancelot had the tip of Dryden’s cock in his mouth, licking and playing with it the way he did with the man’s tongue when they were kissing. The fist in his hair tightened, and Lancelot felt Dryden yank it hard as his body jerked. A yank that in any other situation would've hurt the man. Not this time though, no. All the Soviet could feel was an extremely powerful excitement lifting his spirit high above the clouds. 

_This is absolutely fucking amazing!_

As the seconds ticked by, Lancelot grew bolder still! He opened his mouth, sucking in more of Dryden's throbbing phallus. He grazed over the cut line of the cock, his tongue curiously exploring this strange characteristic a circumcised penis had. He found the lack of foreskin incredibly exotic and even more arousing.

Dryden was panting now, and so was he, humming as more of the shaft entered his mouth and forced down his throat. It reached a point where Lancelot almost gagged. His eyes teared up, and he was sadly forced to retreat a little as he allowed himself to recover. He didn’t need long though, Dryden’s desperate and pleasurable sounds urging him to continue. Determined to keep doing this until the man had been absolutely satisfied, Lancelot tried again, a little slower this time, and managed to swallow the entire shaft, all the way to the base. 

 

Unable to steer his body at all, Dryden became its passenger, riding the currents of his pleasure. Lancelot grew steadily bolder, from licking his member experimentally to taking it into his mouth, then into his throat. The Brit writhed and shifted under him, moans growing louder and more high pitched. His hands still fisted in the Soviet’s hair, Dryden managed to crack his eyes open and raise his upper body enough to watch the visual feast of Lancelot sucking his cock.

Sweet moans became vocal, disbelieving curses. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He could not be so lucky as to have this beautiful man’s lips wrapped around his cock. “Fuck… ah, fuck Lancelot… shit… fuck it's so good…” he gasped. Then all at once, everything collided in his body, all of the erotic bliss gathered in his lower belly and his eyes widened as he shouted, “Holy shit I’m gonna--!”

Of course that was all the time he had before his cock spewed a huge jet of cum into the Soviet’s mouth and he threw his head back in a wordless cry of release. 

 

Lancelot’s intention of doing this had been to make Dryden cum. He’d _wanted_ him to cum. It’s just… he hadn’t been prepared. He hadn’t expected it to be so messy. Dryden’s warning wasn’t as much a warning as it was a loud, immediate proclamation—it didn’t give Lancelot nearly enough time to withdraw, and soon his mouth was overfilled with his lover’s hot, thick sperm. Lancelot coughed, choked on the thick liquid as well as his own saliva, and coughed some more as his lips released the phallus, Dryden’s sperm dropping absolutely everywhere. His eyes watered and his throat felt strangely sore. But that didn’t stop him from doing what he did next. 

As soon as he’d taken a few breaths, making sure that he wasn’t going to suffocate on the man’s cum, Lancelot threw himself back into the sticky mess. He’d gotten himself into this situation, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to end it until he was done! 

He pushed himself up and shuffled until he was sitting on Dryden’s legs. He parted his lips, stuck out his tongue and then slowly started to clean things up. The taste of spunk was… _different_ , compared to anything else Lancelot had tasted. Salty, but not bitter. Sweet, but not sour. At first, the Soviet found it strange. It didn't take long though before the man realised that it was actually kind of tasty. And after he’d eagerly sucked out every drop Dryden’s cock could give him, Lancelot slowly began his journey up to the soldier’s mouth, licking up and swallowing any trace of this strange, erotic encounter. 

After a little while, the Soviet reached Dryden’s navel, and from there, the licks turned into kisses. When he came across a speed bump—one of the soldier's nipples—the kisses turned into bites. Lancelot's throat released something between a growl and a chuckle, and soon after that he finally found Dryden’s lips waiting for him, plunging his tongue into the smaller man’s mouth. 

 

Dryden could barely understand what was happening to him. He'd certainly had orgasms before, completely self-administered until earlier that day, but none had ever felt anything like this. His body went limp immediately, twitching with the aftershocks of his climax. Lancelot worked his way up Dryden’s body, making the Brit lurch and gasp, unable to prevent even the most basic reactions. His body felt like a live wire, even as a sense of relaxation pervaded it, as though his power over himself had been severed. 

When Lancelot finally made his way to his mouth, Dryden welcomed him, wrapping his arms around him and kissing him back with as much energy as he could muster. “That was amazing,” he murmured against the Soviet’s lips. “You are incredible. You say you've never done that before? Impossible! You… you'll have to teach me how.” 

 

“No, never!” Lancelot chuckled, beaming with pride and joy at the way this astonishing man was looking at him. He was blushing now, barely believing that what he’d just done was real. As they were lying there together, holding and kissing each other, Lancelot sensed a change in the air. He didn’t know what it was, only that it felt as if something between them was changing. The Soviet understood now, why Dryden hadn’t shot him in the alley and why he hadn’t killed the man when he’d spotted him in the blizzard; these meetings had already been pre-decided, their lives already woven together by the hands of fate... 

He didn’t know Dryden, he wasn’t even one hundred percent sure if he could trust him or not. And he couldn't care less. _Fuck the war and fuck the fuckers forcing us to kill each other,_ Lancelot thought. No more of that now. No more deaths. No more fighting. Lancelot had never considered himself to be selfish—everything he had ever done, he’d done in the name of his country, for her people and for his family. But right now, right this moment, the War Machine decided that he’d done more than enough to aid their cause. It was his turn to be selfish, to take what he wanted. He deserved it! 

And he wanted Dryden. 

Today, tomorrow, next year and even a hundred years from now, the Soviet knew that he would never stop wanting this man. This was the first real thing could remember ever feeling, and he was going to hold on to it for the rest of his life, cling to it like the fragrance of gunpowder clung to the battlefield.

“Anything,” Lancelot moaned hoarsely between two kisses. “I’ll do anything for you.” He suddenly paused, looking into the black eyes of his saviour, of his beautiful angel. His lover. "Dryden..." he said quietly. "I… I think I’m falling in love with you.” 

 

Dryden loved this. All of this. Being warm and safe and well fed. Leisurely making out on a sofa with a handsome man. Hearing heartfelt words that he never expected to hear from anyone, let alone someone like Lancelot. He couldn’t help but laugh between kisses, feeling lighter and heavier all at once. He held the Russian’s face in his hands and gave him a sad, rueful smile. “We have to be the two dumbest motherfuckers in history,” he sighed, then kissed him again. “Two men falling in love in the middle of a war, coming from opposite sides. Might as well cut my heart out now.” 

He laid back down and pulled Lancelot into his arms, folding the larger man’s body against his own. He sighed again, happy and miserable at the same time. “It can’t ever work, can it?” he asked rhetorically. “The amount of obstacles we face…” he trailed off, feeling weary suddenly, like the world was spinning too fast for him. “I don’t care, though,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I’ll love you anyway. Stupid as it may be.” 

 

“It _has_ to work,” the Soviet said determinedly, “because I am _never_ letting you go.” To emphasise his determination, he pressed his body against Dryden’s—all of it—showing the man just how much he wanted him. His cock was throbbing with need, painfully hard in his pants. His head felt lightheaded, his body burning up. 

Lancelot’s hungry mouth slowly moved from Dryden’s lips to his neck, kissing and sucking passionately. Dryden might have gotten his desire temporary satiated. Lancelot, however…  well, his lust kept growing stronger for each kiss they shared, each second he spent in Dryden’s arms. And with his lust growing, so did his nerves, and soon the Soviet found himself occasionally biting the smaller man. Earlobes, lips, nipples… he wasn’t really paying much attention anymore. He could feel this uncontrollable hunger spread, threatening to take over, to push away any restraints he might have left and just… 

 _Just what?_ Lancelot wondered, both curious and terrified at the same time, moaning loudly as Dryden’s wandering hands sent ripples down his spine. “I want you,” Lancelot breathed “Fuck, I want you so—” 

Suddenly the two men ran out of space; the sofa was small and thin, barely wide enough for Lancelot alone and definitely not ideal for this sort of vigorous activity their kisses were evolving into. With a loud thud, they crashed down on the floor, Lancelot on his back and Dryden unexpectedly sitting on top of him. That did not stop the Soviet from continuing to pursue his lover’s lips with an ever growing intensity. “I love you, Dryden,” he grunted huskily, sweat already forming on his forehead. 

 

“I know,” Dryden breathed back, consumed by his lover’s mouth. “I love you too… I want you too…” He started to unbutton the Russian’s trousers, continuously distracted by their feverish kissing. “I never understood the local lads who would talk about love. They acted like it was a forest fire, something they couldn’t control.” He pulled the Soviet’s trousers open and immediately wrapped his fist around his thick member. “It all makes sense now. I can’t believe I fell in love with you in a few days.” 

He started to kiss Lancelot’s neck now, tugging harder on his cock, wanting to show the Soviet the same gorgeous pleasure he’d just felt. He knew he would probably be rubbish at it, at least at first. But he’d make up for that in effort surely! As Lancelot had done, Dryden worked his way down the other man’s body, feeling his nerves kick in when he got to his navel. Maybe Lancelot didn’t want him to…? He slid between the Russian’s legs and his mouth approached his groin, licking his lower abdomen and his incredible, chiselled muscles. “Can I…?” he whispered. “I want to taste you too.” 

Each time Dryden’s soft lips connected with Lancelot’s sensitive skin, the Soviet’s large body shuddered. He felt like he was on fire, Dryden’s kisses leaving behind a trail of burning embers, making Lancelot gasp and groan in anticipation as Dryden slowly worked his way down his body. 

 

By each kiss, Dryden got closer and closer to Lancelot’s cock, and the Lieutenant was pretty sure that his heart was going in the opposite direction, judging by the way he could feel it thundering in his throat. It was very quickly becoming very overwhelming. The loving hand massaging his throbbing cock. The soft, careful kisses and licks… it was all so fucking unreal, and the Soviet could barely comprehend that this was actually happening. Another kiss so tortuously close to his cock that Lancelot could feel Dryden’s hot breath on the tip. His body twitched and he gasped loudly, his dick already leaking precum. “Y-yes,” the man wheezed, his voice raspy and no louder than a whisper. 

Lancelot could feel Dryden’s nervousness and hesitation as if it was his own, and used his powerful core to sit up enough to be able to look at the man, to assure him that _fucking yes_ , he really, really wanted him to do this. That he literally could not think of anything he could possibly want more. His breath was already hitched, his chest heaving as Dryden continued to use his amazingly skilled fingers to pleasure him. Just like the last time Dryden had touched him, Lancelot could feel his climax approach alarmingly fast and quickly reached his arm out to grab his lover’s hand, forcing him to stop. He didn’t want to add yet another, embarrassing flop to the pile. 

“Slowly,” Lancelot breathed as Dryden looked up at him with a confused expression. He took a few shivering breaths, trying to get his body to calm down a little. With his hand on Dryden’s chin, the Soviet pulled his lover closer and gave him a long, lingering kiss on the lips. As they pulled apart, Lancelot gave the man a timid smile. “Very slowly,” he whispered with a nod, guiding Dryden’s head back to his abdomen. 

 

At his lover’s direction, Dryden removed his hand from his cock and place both of them on his thighs, splaying them out so he could access everything. He wanted to see how much of that huge organ he could take into his mouth. 

_Slowly…_

Right. Needed to build to that. He began with only his tongue, running it up and down Lancelot’s impressive length. Then he swirled it around his tip, listening intently for his reactions, what made him tremble and moan. Almost everything did. Unable to hold off any longer, he gently kissed his cock’s head, licking the bit of arousal from his tip and groaning from the taste that spread on his tongue and made him salivate so hard it hurt. This was the Russian’s taste, what he'd been so curious about, and he wanted more.

Dryden opened his mouth wider to take on his whole tip and then more. Raising and lowering his head, the Brit took more of Lancelot’s shaft with each bob, pushing himself, acclimating to new sensations, finding he was innately good at this, that he loved doing it. Before he realised how close he was, Dryden found he'd taken his entire cock into his mouth and throat. He smiled around the Soviet’s member, and began to suck him off in earnest. 

 

It took all the self-control he had for Lancelot not to ejaculate just from having Dryden’s tongue brush over his cock. Fuck, he knew that he was the one who’d asked Dryden to go slow in order to not end things far too abruptly, but _fucking hell_ , this was turning out to be worse than torture! Every single little thing Dryden did caused Lancelot to gasp and moan, from the fingers gently stroking his inner thighs, to the tongue lapping up his precum as if it was some kind of holy nectar of the gods. 

“F-fuck,” he grunted in Russian, burying his right arm in Dryden’s hair as he just laid there, his breath coming in fast and heavy heaves. He felt the Brit slowly swallowing more and more of his shaft until he realised that his entire length was inside Dryden’s mouth. A spasm went through his body and he groaned again, feeling himself edging on the verge of orgasm. “D-Dryden,” the soldier gasped, subconsciously pressing down the man’s head even further. “I-I can’t… too... fast…”

The Soviet was floating now, like a cloud in the sky. Barely aware of his own actions, Lancelot kept Dryden’s head in a firm grip as he violently thrusted his hips, plunging his cock down Dryden’s throat with a growing desperation. As he neared the point of ecstasy, Lancelot’s groans steadily grew louder, his thrusts more forceful, and despite his attempts to postpone it, it did not take long until the Soviet’s body suddenly jerked violently as a huge load of cum erupted from the tip of his throbbing cock and ran down Dryden’s throat. The soldier kept thrusting, milking himself into Dryden’s mouth until he was completely empty, groaning and cursing in Russian as he did so.

“Fucking hell…” he laughed as his body finally stopped twitching. He was lying on his back, gasping and smiling widely. “You’re… you’re very good at that...” 

 

Dryden wasn't exactly ready for Lancelot’s reaction to having his cock in his mouth. Instead of giving him a blow job, he was more being mouth fucked. Luckily he was over the Soviet and able to pull back when Lancelot thrust too hard so he wouldn't choke! Soon, however, the Brit was able to relax his throat more and the Russian’s member slid in and out easily. 

 _Apparently I was destined to suck cock,_ he thought with some chagrin. When the Soviet tensed up, Dryden’s head bobbed more shallowly so he wouldn't cough like Lancelot did with him. When the other man’s cock spouted in his mouth, Dryden was able to swallow almost all of it, with only small trickles making their way out of his mouth. The Russian stilled and Dryden let his member slip from his mouth and laid his head on the Soviet’s washboard abdomen. 

“I don't know that I'm _that_ good,” Dryden said with a lazy smile while he traced little patterns on Lancelot’s chest with his fingertips. “I need more practice. A _lot_ more practice.” He chuckled then stretched his arms. “The floor isn't comfortable. Now can we go to the bed?” 

 

“Trust me, Sergeant, you’re good,” the Soviet purred. “You’re better than good, actually,” he added with a grin, running his hand through his lover’s hair. “If I were to be one hundred percent honest here, I’d be forced to say that this was literally the _best_ blowjob I have ever received.” He purposely failed to mention that it was also the only blowjob he had ever received. Dryden already knew that he was embarrassingly inexperienced when it came to any sort of erotic activity and he really didn’t want the guy, who was several years younger than him, to be reminded of that! 

He let Dryden help him up from the floor and then began their walk back to the sleeping halls. Consider how short the distance between the two rooms were it sure took the two soldiers a lot of time to get there, mostly because one of them kept distracting the other. If it wasn’t Lancelot shoving Dryden up against the wall and attacking his lips with his mouth, it was the other way around. Once they arrived in the room filled with nothing but beds, the Soviet had already had enough time to recharge for his cock to be rock hard again. And so had Dryden, the man noticed with a smirk as he pushed his lover down on one of the beds, preparing himself for another round of cock-sucking. 

 


End file.
